JBRARY
NIVERSITY OF
CALIFORNIA
BAN DIEGO
TYPES OF
GREAT LITERATURE
TYPES OF
GREAT LITERATURE
CHOSEN BY
PERCY HAZEN HOUSTON, PH.D.
DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH,
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SOUTHERN BRANCH
AND
JOHN KESTER BONNELL, PH.D.
LATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH,
GOUCHER COLLEGE
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1927
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATE*
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, CARPEN CITT, N. Y.
PREFACE
"I cannot be interested in life; I care nothing for human beings and their ideas and
emotions."
No one ever says just that. And yet that is just what is implied whenever any one
says, as young people frequently say, " I am not interested in literature." The intended
implication is, of course, that the speaker is not interested in literature but is interested
in life, in people. But literature is life: life reflected in a crystal mirror, life not of the
passing crowd merely, but of many epochs and of various lands, the teeming life, the
many-colored character of man. Through it one may know ultimately some of the
greatest minds that the race has produced, and through it, consequently, one's exper-
ience of life and human nature may be enriched as through no other means.
Literature, moreover, is one of the supreme achievements by which a nation shows
its greatness. When all else that counted for greatness has returned to dust and obliv-
ion, that nation is called great and famous which has left the mark of its spirit upon
posterity through great literature. Why does Europe still reverence the ancient
Greeks? Why do English speaking people remember with pride "The spacious times
of great Elizabeth"? The answer is found in the poets.
Such thoughts as these impelled the editors of this book when they ransacked the
ages for proper representatives of the several types of literature. Their problem was,
within the covers of one volume, to supply an opportunity for direct acquaintance with
masterpieces. To avoid elaborate historical outlines and critical entanglements, while
at the same time ranging free from the cramping limits of periods and lands, they de-
cided to present the material grouped according to types. The drama, the novel, and
the short story are omitted because it is felt, on the one hand, that they cannot so well
be represented by excerpts as some other types, and on the other hand, that they are
far more readily accessible to the general reader.
This book is an introduction. It does not pretend to be an Aladdin's cave of in-
exhaustible treasure, nor yet a completely representative selection of the world's literary
gems. It is, rather, a gate, that gives upon the main highways of letters. The editors
have sought in each of the several types to present what is excellent and representative ;
but they have sought, also, to present selections that would command the enthusiasm
of impatient youth. They have kept in mind the generous spirit of those who are
interested less in letters than in life. It is hoped that each reader will find at least one
of the main highways leading from this gate sufficiently attractive to pursue beyond it.
ANNAPOLIS, 28 June, 1919.
CONTENTS
I. EPIC AND ROMANCE
HCMER
Iliad, VI 3
Odyssey, XXI, XXII (part). ... 12
VIRGIL
^Eneid, II 26
DANTE
Inferno, VIII, IX 42
MILTON
Paradise Lost, I, II 47
BEOWULF
Episode of Grendel's Mother ... 66
THE SONG OF ROLAND
Death of the Peers at Roncesvalles. . 71
NlBELUNGENLIED
Episodes of Siegfried and Kriemhild . 76
MALORY
The Death of Arthur 93
II. NARRATIVE POETRY
BURNS
Tarn O'Shanter 101
BYRON
Don Juan, Canto II (the shipwreck) . 103
TENNYSON
The Last Fight of the "Revenge" . .118
BROWNING
Herv6 Riel 120
ARNOLD
Sohrab and Rustum 122
LANIER
The Revenge of Hamish 136
III. THE BALLAD
The Popular Ballad
Edws.rd 139
The Three Ravens 140
Thomas Rymer 140
Sir Patrick Spens 141
Bonny Barbara Allan 141
Johnie Armstrong 142
The Daemon Lover 143
Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne . . 144
Modern Imitations of the Ballad
KEATS
La Belle Dame Sans Merci .... 147
ROSSETTI
Sister Helen 147
IV. LYRIC POETRY
FAGS
ANONYMOUS
Jolly Good Ale and Old 152
SIDNEY
Sonnet XXXI 152
PEELE
Fair and Fair, and Twice so Fair . . 152
DRAYTON
The Ballad of Agincourt .... 153
SHAKESPEARE
Songs, and Sonnets 154
WOTTON
Character of a Happy Life . . . . 15$
D F KKER
The Happy Heart 158
BEN JONSON
Song to Celia 158
Hymn to Diana 158
JOHN FLETCHER
Melancholy 159
WITHER
The Lover's Resolution 159
HERRICK
Upon Julia's Clothes 159
To the Virgins to Make Much of Time. 160
To Daffodils 160
An Ode for Ben Jonson 160
SHIRLEY
The Glories of Our Blood and State . 160
WALLER
Go, Lovely Rose 161
MILTON
Sonnet (On His Blindness) .... 161
SUCKLING
The Constant Lover 161
Why So Pale and Wan 161
LOVELACE
To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars . . 162
To Althea, from Prison ..... 162
VAUGHAN
The World 162
DRYDEN
Alexander's Feast 163
GRAY
Elegy Written in a Country Church-
yard 165
BURNS
Highland Mary 167
Bonnie Doon 168
Scots WhaHae 168
A Man's a Man for a' That . . . . 168
Lines to John Lapraik 169
To a Mouse ........ 169
vu
Vlll
CONTENTS
WORDSWORTH PAGK
The Prelude, from Book I .... 170
Tintern Abbey 171
The Solitary Reaper 173
Ode to Duty 173
Character of the Happy Warrior . . 174
Westminster Bridge 175
It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and
Free 175
The World is Too Much with Us . .175
COLERIDGE
Kubla Khan 176
LAMB
Old Familiar Faces 176
LANDOR
Rose Aylmer 177
On his Seventy-fifth Birthday . . . 177
CAMPBELL
Ye Mariners of England 177
The Battle of the Baltic 178
Hohenlinden 178
CUNNINGHAM
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . . 179
PROCTER ("BARRY CORNWALL")
The Sea 179
BYRON
She Walks in Beauty 180
SHELLEY
To a Skylark 180
Ode to the West Wind 181
The Indian Serenade 183
Ozymandias 183
KEATS
Ode on a Grecian Urn 183
Ode to a Nightingale 184
To Autumn 185
Hymn to Pan (from Endymion, I) . . 186
On First Looking into Chapman's
Homer 187
HOOD
The Bridge of Sighs ...... 187
EMERSON
Days 189
LONGFELLOW
Sonnets (on Dante) 189
POE
To Helen 190
Israfel 190
The City in the Sea 190
The Raven 191
The Haunted Palace 193
TENNYSON
The Lotos-Eaters 194
Ulysses 197
Lyrics from "The Princess" . . . 198
Lyrics from "In Memoriam" . . . 109
Ode on the Death of the Duke of Well-
ington 200
Lyric from "Maud" 204
Crossing the Bar 204
BROWNING
My Last Duchess 205
Meeting at Night 205
Parting at Morning 206
Home-Thoughts from the Sea . . . 206
The Bishop Orders his Tomb . . . 206
Andrea Del Sarto 206
Rabbi Ben Ezra 212
Prospice 214
Epilogue of Asolando 215
WHITMAN
0 Captain, My Captain 215
ARNOLD
Dover Beach 216
SWINBURNE
Choruses from " Atalanta in Calydon" . 216
In the Water 218
HENLEY
Invictus 219
KIPLING
Recessional 219
McCRAE
In Flanders Fields 219
BROOKE
The Soldier 220
SEEGER
1 Have a Rendezvous with Death . 220
V. HISTORY
HERODOTUS
Marathon, Thermopylae, Salamis . . 221
THUCYDIDES
The Peloponnesian War: Funeral Ora-
tion of Pericles, The Corcyraean
Revolution 241
TACITUS
The Annals: from the "Reign of Nero" 248
GIBBON
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire:
Siege, Assault, and Final Conquest
of Constantinople 254
CARLYLE
French Revolution: Chapters from
Books V and VI 269
MACAULAY
Frederick the Great: the Treachery of
Frederick 280
The History of England: Torrington
and Tourville 284
PARKMAN
The Conspiracy of Pontiac: Chapters
VII, VIII, IX 289
GREEN
A Short History of the English People:
Portrait of Elizabeth .... 302
VI. BIOGRAPHY
PLUTARCH
Themistocles 310
FULLER
The Holy State, Book II, Chapter xxii:
The Life of Sir Francis Drake. . 323
CONTENTS
BOSWELL PAGE
The Life of Samuel Johnson: First
Meeting with Johnson, Johnson's
Interview with the King, Johnson's
Conversations, Dinner with John
Wilkes 327
FRANKLIN
Autobiography: Concerning Militia
and the Founding of a College,
Public Subscriptions, Improving
City Streets 347
VII. LETTERS
JOHNSON 358
FRANKLIN 358
LAMB 359
BYRON 364
MAZZINI 365
LINCOLN 368
CARLYLE 368
STEVENSON 369
VIII. ORATIONS
PLATO
The Apology of Socrates
BURKE
At the Trial of Warren Hastings
DANTON
Dare, Dare Again, Always Dare .
WEBSTER
In Reply to Hayne
MACAULAY
On the Reform Bill
MAZZINI
To the Young Men of Italy ....
GARIBALDI
To His Soldiers
CAVOUR
Rome as the Capital of United Italy .
LINCOLN
The "House Divided Against Itself" .
The Speech at Gettysburg ....
The Second Inaugural
385
387
388
397
401
402
403
405
406
407
IX. ESSAYS
MONTAIGNE *AGK
Of Repentance 408,
BACON
Of Truth, Of Adversity, Of Riches, Of
Youth and Age, Of Negotiating, Of
Studies 414
SWTJFT
Abolishing of Christianity .... 420
A Modest Proposal 427
ADDISON
The Object of The Spectator, Thoughts
in Westminster Abbey, The Fine
^ Lady's Journal 432
BURKE
Reflections on the French Revolution . 438
LAMB
Poor Relations, Grace Before Meat, The
Convalescent 448
SCHOPENHAUER
On Thinking for Oneself 45$
CARLYLE
Past and Present, Book III, Chapters
x, xi, and xiii 463
EMERSON
Self-Reliance 476
SATNTE-BEUVE
What Is a Classic? 484
POE
The Philosophy of Composition. . . 491
RUSKTJST
Life and Its Arts 498
ARNOLD
Sweetness and Light, Hebraism and
Hellenism 508
HUXLEY
The Method of Scientific Investigation 526
JAMES
The Moral Equivalent of War . . . 530
STEVENSON
jEs Triplex 538
EPIC AND ROMANCE
HOMER
When many centuries have passed over a civilization, and its cities have disappeared like a mist
on the horizon, with all their monuments, their ships, their stately buildings of brass and stone — then
there might be nothing left by which that civilization could be remembered, if it were not for the poets.
For songs have proved themselves the most enduring things on this earth. Thus, in the mighty epics of
ancient Greece, the Iliad and the Odyssey, we have preserved for us the Greek life of about three thousand
years ago. Through these poems we know the heart of ancient Greece and what manner of men her
heroes were.
Whether or not Homer was, as tradition held, an old blind singer who wandered from place to place
chanting his stories of the fall of Troy and of the voyagings of the wise Odysseus, need not concern us.
The significant thing is that these poems have profoundly influenced European literature, both ancient
and modern, and through literature have touched the lives of all western peoples; that they are not only
the most ancient national epics, but also the greatest.
THE ILIAD
The Iliad is the epic narrative of the expedition of the Greeks against the city of Troy to recover
Helen, wife of Menelaus, who had been seduced and abducted by Paris, the son of Priam, king of Troy.
The story of the golden apple thrown by Discord among the goddesses at the wedding feast of Thetis,
the quarrel between Hera, Pallas Athena, and Aphrodite over who was the fairest with a right to posses-
sion of the apple, their request that Paris should make the decision, and his awarding of it to Aphrodite,
her rewarding him with the love of Helen fairest of women, his stealing of her from the hearthstone of
Menelaus, the gathering of the chieftains of Greece to his aid — these preliminaries to the story are told
elsewhere or incidentally in the poem. The poem itself opens in the ninth year of the siege with a
quarrel between Agamemnon, leader of the Greek host, and the greatest of the Greek warriors, Achilles,
over the spoils of war, and the retirement of the latter to his tent to sulk among his people. He is in
the end forced into active fighting only by the death of his beloved friend Patroclus who had disguised
himself in the armor of the great warrior in order to hearten the Greek host. Achilles avenges him by
slaying Hector, the Trojan chieftain, and dragging his body behind his chariot about the walls of the
city. Throughout the mighty succession of battles, the heroes, aided by the gods from high Olympus,
contend for the mastery of the field.
The translation (1864) is by Edward, Earl of Derby.
BOOK VI
ARGUMENT
THE battle is continued. The Trojans being
closely pursued, Hector by the advice of
Helenus enters Troy, and recommends it to
Hecuba to go in solemn procession to the
temple of Minerva; she with the matrons goes
accordingly. Hector takes the opportunity
to find out Paris, and exhorts him to return
to the field of battle. An interview succeeds
between Hector and Andromache, and Paris,
having armed himself in the meantime, comes
up with Hector at the close of it, when they
sally from the gate together.
THE Gods had left the field, and o'er the
plain
Hither and thither surg'd the tide of war,
As couch'd th' opposing chiefs their brass-
tipp'd spears,
Midway 'twixt Simois' and Scamander's
streams.
First through the Trojan phalanx broke
his way
The son of Telamon, the prop of Greece,
The mighty Ajax; on his friends the light
Of triumph shedding, as Eusorus' son
He smote, the noblest of the Thracian
bands,
Valiant and strong, the gallant Acamas.
Full in the front, beneath the plumed helm,
The sharp spear struck, and crashing
through the bone,
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
The warrior's eyes were clos'd in endless
night.
Next valiant Diomed Axylus slew,
The son of Teuthranes, who had his home
In fair Arisba; rich in substance he,
And lov'd of all; for, dwelling near the
road,
He op'd to all his hospitable gate;
But none of all he entertain'd was there
To ward aside the bitter doom of death:
There fell they both, he and his charioteer,
Calesius, who athwart the battle-field
His chariot drove; one fate o'er took them
both.
Then Dresus and Opheltius of their arms
Euryalus despoil'd; his hot pursuit
^Esepus next, and Pedasus assail'd,
Brothers, whom Abarbarea, Naiad nymph,
To bold Bucolion bore; Buco!ion, son
Of great Laomedon, his eldest born,
Though bastard: he upon the mountain
side,
On which his flocks he tended, met the
nymph,
And of their secret loves twin sons were
born;
Whom now at once Euryalus of strength
And life depriv'd, and of their armour
stripp'd.
By Polypcetes' hand, in battle strong,
Was slain Astyalus; Pidutes fell,
Chief of Percote, by Ulysses' spear;
And Teucer godlike Aretaon slew.
Antilochus, the son of Nestor, smote
With gleaming lance Ablerus; Elatus
By Agamemnon, King of men, was slain,
Who dwelt by Satnois' widely-flowing
stream,
Upon the lofty heights of Pedasus.
By Le'itus was Phylacus in flight
O'erta'en; Eurypylus Melanthius slew.
Then Menelaus, good in battle, took
Adrastus captive; for his horses, scar'd
And rushing wildly o'er the plain, amid
The tangled tamarisk scrub his chariot
broke,
Snapping the pole; they with the flying
crowd
Held city-ward their course ; he from the car
Hurl'd headlong, prostrate lay beside the
wheel,
Prone on his face in dust; and at his side,
Poising his mighty spear, Atrides stood.
Adrastus clasp'd his knees, and suppliant
cried,
"Spare me, great son of Atreus! for my life
Accept a price; my wealthy father's house
A goodly store contains of brass, and gold,
And well- wrought iron; and of these he fain
Would pay a noble ransom, could he hear
That in the Grecian ships I yet surviv'd."
His words to pity mov'd the victor's
breast;
Then had he bade his followers to the ships
The captive bear; but running up in haste,
Fierce Agamemnon cried in stern rebuke;
"Soft-hearted Menelaus, why of life
So tender? Hath thy house receiv'd in-
deed
Nothing but benefits at Trojan hands?
Of that abhorred race, let not a man
Escape the deadly vengeance of our arms ;
No, not the infant in its mother's womb;
No, nor the fugitive; but be they all,
They and their city, utterly destroy'd,
Uncar'd for, and from mem'ry blotted
out."
Thus as he spoke, his counsel, fraught
with death,
His brother's purpose chang'd: he with hi3
hand
Adrastus thrust aside, whom with his lance
Fierce Agamemnon through the loins
transfix'd;
And, as he roll'd in death, upon his breast
Planting his foot, the ashen spear with-
drew.
Then loudly Nestor shouted to the
Greeks:
"Friends, Grecian heroes, ministers of
Mars!
Loiter not now behind, to throw yourselves
Upon the prey, and bear it to the ships:
Let all your aim be now to kill; anon
Ye may at leisure spoil your slaughter'd
foes."
With words like these he fir'd the blood
of all.
Now had the Trojans by the warlike
Greeks
In coward flight within their walls been
driv'n;
But to ^Eneas and to Hector thus
The son of Priam, Helenus, the
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Of all the Trojan seers, address'd his
speech:
"^Eneas, and thou Hector, since on you,
Of all the Trojans and the Lycian hosts,
Is laid the heaviest burthen, for that ye
Excel alike in council and in fight,
Stand here awhile, and moving to and fro
On ev'ry side, around the gates exhort
The troops to rally, lest they fall disgrac'd,
Flying for safety to their women's arms,
And foes, exulting, triumph in their shame.
Their courage thus restor'd, worn as we
are,
We with the Greeks will still maintain the
fight,
For so, perforce, we must; but, Hector,
thou
Haste to the city; there our mother find,
Both thine and mine; on Ilium's topmost
height
By all the aged dames accompanied,
Bid her the shrine of blue-ey'd Pallas seek;
Unlock the sacred gates; and on the knees
Of fair-hair'd Pallas place the fairest robe
In all the house, the amplest, best es-
teem'd;
And at her altar vow to sacrifice
Twelve yearling kine that never felt the
goad,
So she have pity on the Trojan state,
Our wives, and helpless babes, and turn
away
The fiery son of Tydeus, spearman fierce,
The Minister of Terror; bravest he,
In my esteem, of all the Grecian chiefs;
For not Achilles' self, the prince of men,
Though Goddess-born, such dread inspir'd;
so fierce
His rage; and with his prowess none may
vie."
He said, nor uncomplying, Hector heard
His brother's counsel; from his car he
leap'd
In arms upon the plain; and brandish'd
high
His jav'lins keen, and moving to and fro
The troops encourag'd, and restor'd the
fight.
Rallying they turn'd, and fac'd again the
Greeks :
These ceas'd from slaughter, and in turn
gave way,
Deeming that from the starry Heav'n
some God
Had to the rescue come; so fierce they
turn'd.
Then to the Trojans Hector calPd aloud:
"Ye valiant Trojans, and renown'd
Allies,
Quit you like men; remember now, brave
friends,
Your wonted valor; I to Ilium go
To bid our wives and rev'rend Elders raise
To Heav'n their pray'rs, with vows of
hecatombs."
Thus saying, Hector of the glancing
helm
Turn'd to depart; and as he mov'd along,
The black bull's-hide his neck and ankles
smote,
The outer circle of his bossy shield.
Then Tydeus' son, and Glaucus, in the
midst,
Son of Hippolochus, stood forth to fight;
But when they near were met, to Glaucus
first
The valiant Diomed his speech address'd:
"Who art thou, boldest man of mortal
birth?
For in the glorious conflict heretofore
I ne'er have seen thee; but in daring now
Thou far surpasses! all, who hast not fear'd
To face my spear; of most unhappy sires
The children they, who my encounter meet.
But if from Heav'n thou com'st, and art
indeed
A God, I fight not with the heav'nly
powers.
Not long did Dryas' son, Lycurgus brave,
Survive, who dar'd th' Immortals to defy:
He, 'mid their frantic orgies, in the groves
Of lovely Nyssa, put to shameful rout
The youthful Bacchus' nurses ; they, in fear,
Dropp'd each her thyrsus, scatter'd by
the hand
Of fierce Lycurgus, with an ox-goad arm'd.
Bacchus himself beneath the ocean wave
In terror plung'd, and, trembling, refuge
found
In Thetis' bosom from a mortal's threats:
The Gods indignant saw, and Saturn's son
Smote him with blindness; nor surviv'd he
long,
Hated alike by all th' immortal Gods.
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
I dare not then the blessed Gods oppose;
But be thou mortal, and the fruits of earth
Thy food, approach, and quickly meet thy
doom."
To whom the noble Glaucus thus replied:
"Great son of Tydeus, why my race en-
quire?
The race of man is as the race of leaves:
Of leaves, one generation by the wind
Is scatter 'd on the earth; another soon
In spring's luxuriant verdure bursts to
light.
So with our race; these flourish, those de-
cay.
But if thou wouldst in truth enquire and
learn
The race I spring from, not unknown of
men;
There is a city, in the deep recess
Of pastoral Argos, Ephyre by name:
There Sisyphus of old his dwelling had,
Of mortal men the craftiest; Sisyphus,
The son of ^Eolus; to him was born
Glaucus; and Glaucus in his turn begot
Bellerophon, on whom the Gods bestow'd
The gifts of beauty and of manly grace.
But Prcetus sought his death; and,
mightier far,
From all the coasts of Argos drove him
forth,
To Prcetus subjected by Jove's decree.
For him the monarch's wife, Antsea, nurs'd
A madd'ning passion, and to guilty love
Would fain have tempted him; but fail'd
to move
The upright soul of chaste Bellerophon.
With lying words she then address'd the
King:
'Die, Prcetus, thou, or slay Bellerophon,
Who basely sought my honor to assail.'
The King with anger listen'd to her words;
Slay him he would not; that his soul ab-
horr'd;
But to the father of his wife, the King
Of Lycia, sent him forth, with tokens
charg'd
Of dire import, on folded tablets trac'd
Pois'ning the monarch's mind, to work his
death.
To Lycia, guarded by the Gods, he went;
But when he came to Lycia, and the
streams
Of Zanthus, there with hospitable rites
The King of wide-spread Lycia welcom'd
him.
Nine days he feasted him, nine oxen slew;
But with the tenth return of rosy morn
He question'd him, and for the tokens-
ask'd
He from his son-in-law, from Prcetus, bore.
The tokens' fatal import understood,
He bade him first the dread Chimaera slay;
A monster, sent from Heav'n, not human
born,
With head of lion, and a serpent's tail,
And body of a goat ; and from her mouth
There issued flames of fiercely-burning fire :
Yet her, confiding in the Gods, he slew.
Next, with the valiant Solymi he fought,
The fiercest fight that e'er he undertook.
Thirdly, the women-warriors he o'erthrew,
The Amazons; from whom returning home,
The King another stratagem devis'd;
For, choosing out the best of Lycia's sons,
He set an ambush ; they return'd not home,
For all by brave Bellerophon were slain.
But, by his valor when the King perceiv'd
His heav'nly birth, he entertain'd him well;
Gave him his daughter; and with her the
half
Of all his royal honors he bestow'd:
A portion too the Lycians meted out,
Fertile in corn and wine, of all the state
The choicest land, to be his heritage.
Three children there to brave Bellerophon
Were born; Isander, and Hippolochus,
Laodamia last, belov'd of Jove,
The Lord of counsel; and to him she bore
Godlike Sarpedon of the brazen helm.
Bellerophon at length the wrath incurr'd
Of all the Gods; and to th' Aleian plain
Alone he wander'd; there he wore away
His soul, and shunn'd the busy haunts of
men.
Insatiate Mars his son Isander slew
In battle with the valiant Solymi:
His daughter perish'd by Diana's wrath.
I from Hippolochus my birth derive:
To Troy he sent me, and enjoin'd me oft
To aim at highest honors, and surpass
My comrades all; nor on my father's name
Discredit bring, who held the foremost
place
In Ephyre, and Lycia's wide domain.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Such is my race and such the blood I
boast."
He said; and Diomed rejoicing heard:
His spear he planted in the fruitful ground,
And thus with friendly words the chief
address'd:
"By ancient ties of friendship are we
bound;
For godlike CEneus in his house receiv'd
For twenty days the brave Bellerophon;
They many a gift of friendship inter-
chang'd.
A belt, with crimson glowing, GEneus gave;
Bellerophon, a double cup of gold,
Which in my house I left when here I came.
Of Tydeus no remembrance I retain;
For yet a child he left me, when he fell
With his Achaians at the gates of Thebes.
So I in Argos am thy friendly host;
Thou mine in Lycia, when I thither come:
Then shun we, ev'n amid the thickest fight,
Each other's lance; enough there are for me
Of Trojans and their brave allies to kill,
As Heav'n may aid me, and my speed of
foot;
And Greeks enough there are for thee to
slay,
If so indeed thou canst; but let us now
Our armor interchange, that these may
know
What friendly bonds of old our houses
join."
Thus as they spoke, they quitted each his
car;
Clasp'd hand in hand, and plighted mutual
faith.
Then Glaucus of his judgment Jove de-
priv'd,
His armor interchanging, gold for brass,
A hundred oxen's worth for that of nine.
Meanwhile, when Hector reach'd the
oak beside
The Scaean gate, around him throng'd the
wives
Of Troy, and daughters, anxious to enquire
The fate of children, brothers, husbands,
friends;
He to the Gods exhorted all to pray,
For deep the sorrows that o'er many hung.
But when to Priam's splendid house he
came,
With polish'd corridors adorn'd — within
Were fifty chambers, all of polish'd stone,
Plac'd each by other; there the fifty sons
Of Priam with their wedded wives repos'd;
On th' other side, within the court were
built
Twelve chambers, near the roof, of polish'd
stone,
Plac'd each by other; there the sons-in-law
Of Priam with their spouses chaste repos'd;
To meet him there his tender mother came,
And with her led the young Laodice,
Fairest of all her daughters; clasping then
His hand, she thus address'd him: "Why,
my son,
Why com'st thou here, and leav'st the
battle-field?
Are Trojans by those hateful sons of
Greece,
Fighting around the city, sorely press'd?
And com'st thou, by thy spirit mov'd, to
raise,
On Ilium's heights, thy hands in pray'r to
Jove?
But tarry till I bring the luscious wine,
That first to Jove, and to th' Immortals
all,
Thou mayst thine ofif'ring pour; then with
the draught
Thyself thou mayst refresh; for great the
strength
Which gen'rous wine imparts to men who
toil,
As thou hast toil'd, thy comrades to pro-
tect."
To whom great Hector of the glancing
helm:
"No, not for me, mine honor'd mother,
pour
The luscious wine, lest thou unnerve my
limbs,
And make me all my wonted prowess lose.
The ruddy wine I dare not pour to Jove
With hands unwash'd; nor to the cloud-
girt son
Of Saturn may the voice of pray'r ascend
From one with blood bespatter'd and
defil'd.
Thou, with the elder women, seek the
shrine
Of Pallas; bring your gifts; and on the
knees
Of fair-hair'd Pallas place the fairest robe
8
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
In all the house, the amplest, best es-
teem'd;
And at her altar vow to sacrifice
Twelve yearling kine, that never felt the
goad;
So she have pity on the Trojan state,
Our wives, and helpless babes; and turn
away
The fiery son of Tydeus, spearman fierce,
The Minister of Terror; to the shrine
Of Pallas thou; to Paris I, to call
If haply he will hear; would that the earth
Would gape and swallow him! for great
the curse
That Jove through him hath brought on
men of Troy,
On noble Priam, and on Priam's sons.
Could I but know that he were in his
grave,
Methinks my sorrows I could half forget."
He said: she, to the house returning, sent
Th' attendants through the city, to collect
The train of aged suppliants; she mean-
while
Her fragrant chamber sought, wherein
were stor'd
Rich garments, by Sidonian women work'd,
Whom godlike Paris had from Sidon
brought,
Sailing the broad sea o'er, the selfsame
path
By which the high-born Helen he convey'd.
Of these, the richest in embroidery,
The amplest, and the brightest, as a star
Refulgent, plac'd with care beneath the
rest,
The Queen her off'ring bore to Pallas'
shrine:
She went, and with her many an ancient
dame.
But when the shrine they reach'd on
Ilium's height,
Theano, fair of face, the gates unlock'd,
Daughter of Cisseus, sage Antenor's wife,
By Trojans nam'd at Pallas' shrine to
serve.
They with deep moans to Pallas rais'd
their hands;
But fair Theano took the robe, and plac'd
On Pallas' knees, and to the heav'nly Maid,
Daughter of Jove, she thus address'd her
pray'r:
"Guardian of cities, Pallas, awful Queen,
Goddess of Goddesses, break thou the
spear
Of Tydeus' son ; and grant that he himself
Prostrate before the Scaean gates may fall ;
So at thine altar will we sacrifice
Twelve yearling kine, that never felt the
goad,
If thou have pity on the state of Troy,
The wives of Trojans, and their helpless
babes."
Thus she; but Pallas answer 'd not her
pray'r.
While thus they call'd upon the heav'nly
Maid,
Hector to Paris' mansion bent his way;
A noble structure, which himself had built
Aided by all the best artificers
Who in the fertile realm of Troy were
known;
With chambers, hall, and court, on Ilium's
height,
Near to where Priam's self and Hector
dwelt.
There enter'd Hector, well belov'd of Jove ;
And in his hand his pond'rous spear he
bore,
Twelve cubits long; bright flash'd the
weapon's point
Of polish'd brass, with circling hoop of
gold.
There in his chamber found he whom he
sought,
About his armor busied, polishing
His shield, his breastplate, and his bended
bow.
While Argive Helen, 'mid her maidens
plac'd,
The skilful labors of their hands o'er-
look'd.
To him thus Hector with reproachful
words:
"Thou dost not well thine anger to in-
dulge;
In battle round the city's lofty wall
The people fast are falling; thou the cause
That fiercely thus around the city burns
The flame of war and battle; and thyself
Wouldst others blame, who from the fight
should shrink.
Up, ere the town be wrapp'd in hostile
fires."
EPIC AND ROMANCE
To whom in answer godlike Paris thus:
"Hector, I own not causeless thy rebuke;
Yet will I speak; hear thou and under
stand ;
'Twas less from anger with the Trojan
host,
And fierce resentment, that I here re-
main'd,
Than that I sought my sorrow to indulge;
Yet hath my wife, ev'n now, with soothing
words
Urg'd me to join the battle; so, I own,
'Twere best; and Vict'ry changes oft her
side.
Then stay, while I my armor don; or thou
Go first: I, following, will o'ertake thee
soon."
He said: but Hector of the glancing helm
Made answer none; then thus with gentle
tones
Helen accosted him: "Dear brother mine,
(Of me, degraded, sorrow-bringing, vile !)
Oh that the day my mother gave me birth
Some storm had on the mountains cast
me forth!
Or that the many-dashing ocean's waves
Had swept me off, ere all this woe were
wrought !
Yet if these evils were of Heav'n ordain'd,
Would that a better man had call'd me
wife;
A sounder judge of honor and disgrace:
For he, thou know'st, no firmness hath of
mind,
Nor ever will; a want he well may rue.
But come thou in, and rest thee here
awhile,
Dear brother, on this couch; for travail
sore
Encompasseth thy soul, by me impos'd,
Degraded as I am, and Paris' guilt;
On whom this burthen Heav'n hath laid,
that shame
On both our names through years to come
shall rest."
To whom great Hector of the glancing
helm:
"Though kind thy wish, yet, Helen, ask
me not
To sit or rest; I cannot yield to thee:
For to the succour of our friends I haste,
Who feel my loss, and sorely need my aid.
But thou thy husband rouse, and let him
speed,
That he may find me still within the walls.
For I too homeward go; to see once more
My household, and my wife, and infant
child:
For whether I may e'er again return,
I know not, or if Heav'n have so decreed,
That I this day by Grecian hands should
fall."
Thus saying, Hector of the glancing
helm
Turn'd to depart; with rapid step he
reach'd
His own well-furnish'd house, but found
not there
His white-arm'd spouse, the fair Andro-
mache.
She with her infant child and maid the
while
Was standing, bath'd in tears, in bitter
grief,
On Ilium's topmost tower: but when her
Lord
Found not within the house his peerless
wife,
Upon the threshold pausing, thus he spoke:
"Tell me, my maidens, tell me true, which
way
Your mistress went, the fair Andromache;
Or to my sisters, or my brothers' wives?
Or to the temple where the fair-hair'd
dames
Of Troy invoke Minerva's awful name? "
To whom the matron of his house re-
plied:
" Hector, if truly we must answer thee,
Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers' wives,
Nor to the temple where the fair-hair'd
dames
Of Troy invoke Minerva's awful name,
But to the height of Ilium's topmost tow'r
Andromache is gone; since tidings came
The Trojan force was overmatch'd, and
great
The Grecian strength: whereat, like one
distract,
She hurried to the walls, and with her took,
Borne in the nurse's arms, her infant
child."
So spoke the ancient dame; and Hector
straight
10
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Through the wide streets his rapid steps
retrac'd.
But when at last the mighty city's length
Was travers'd, and the Scaean gates were
reach'd
Whence was the outlet to the plain, in
haste
Running to meet him came his priceless
wife,
Eetion's daughter, fair Andromache;
Eetion, who from Thebes Cilicia sway'd,
Thebes, at the foot of Places' wooded
heights.
His child to Hector of the brazen helm
Was giv'n in marriage: she it was who now
Met him, and by her side the nurse, who
bore,
Clasp'd to her breast, his all unconscious
child,
Hector's lov'd infant, fair as morning star;
Whom Hector call'd Scamandrius, but the
rest
Astyanax, in honor of his sire,
The matchless chief, the only prop of Troy.
Silent he smil'd as on his boy he gaz'd:
But at his side Andromache, in tears,
Hung on his arm, and thus the chief ad-
dress'd:
"Dear Lord, thy dauntless spirit will
work thy doom:
Nor hast thou pity on this thy helpless
child,
Or me forlorn, to be thy widow soon:
For thee will all the Greeks with force
combin'd
Assail and slay: for me, 'twere better far,
Of thee bereft, to lie beneath the sod;
Nor comfort shall be mine, if thou be lost,
But endless grief; to me nor sire is left,
Nor honor 'd mother; fell Achilles' hand
My sire Eetion slew, what time his arms
The populous city of Cilicia raz'd,
The lofty-gated Thebes; he slew indeed,
But stripp'd him not; he reverenc'd the
dead;
And o'er his body, with his armor burnt,
A mound erected; and the mountain
nymphs,
The progeny of aegis-bearing Jove,
Planted around his tomb a grove of elms.
There were sev'n brethren in my father's
house;
All in one day they fell, amid their herds
And fleecy flocks, by fierce Achilles' hand.
My mother, Queen of Places' wooded
height,
Brought with the captives here, he soon
releas'd
For costly ransom; but by Dian's shafts
She, in her father's house, was stricken
down.
But, Hector, thou to me art all in one,
Sire, mother, brethren! thou, my wedded
love!
Then pitying us, within the tow'r remain,
Nor make thy child an orphan, and thy
wife
A hapless widow; by the fig-tree here
Array thy troops; for here the city wall,
Easiest of access, most invites assault.
Thrice have their boldest chiefs this point
assail'd,
The two Ajaces, brave Idomeneus,
Th' Atridae both, and Tydeus' warlike son,
Or by the prompting of some Heav'n-
taught seer,
Or by their own advent'rous courage led."
To whom great Hector of the glancing
helm:
"Think not, dear wife, that by such
thoughts as these
My heart has ne'er been wrung; but I
should blush
To face the men and long-rob'd dames of
Troy,
If, like a coward, I could shun the fight.
Nor could my soul the lessons of my youth
So far forget, whose boast it still has been
In the fore-front of battle to be found,
Charg'd with my father's glory and mine
own.
Yet hi my inmost soul too well I know,
The day must come when this our sacred
Troy,
And Priam's race, and Priam's royal self,
Shall in one common ruin be o'erthrown.
But not the thoughts of Troy's impending
fate,
Nor Hecuba's nor royal Priam's woes,
Nor loss of brethren, numerous and brave,
By hostile hands laid prostrate in the dust,
So deeply wring my heart as thoughts of
thee,
Thy days of freedom lost, and led away
EPIC AND ROMANCE
ii
A weeping captive by some brass-clad
Greek;
Haply in Argos, at a mistress' beck,
Condemn'd to ply the loom, or water draw
From Hypereia's or Messeis' fount,
Heart-wrung, by stern necessity con-
strain'd.
Then they who see thy tears perchance
may say,
'Lo! this was Hector's wife, who, when
they fought
On plains of Troy, was Ilium's bravest
chief.'
Thus may they speak; and thus thy grief
renew
For loss of him, who might have been thy
shield
To rescue thee from slav'ry's bitter hour.
Oh may I sleep in dust, ere be condemn'd
To hear thy cries, and see thee dragg'd
away!"
Thus as he spoke, great Hector stretch'd
his arms
To take his child; but back the infant
shrank,
Crying, and sought his nurse's shelt'ring
breast,
Scar'd by the brazen helm and horse-hair
plume,
That nodded, fearful, on the warrior's
crest.
Laugh'd the fond parents both, and from
his brow
Hector the casque remov'd, and set it
down,
All glitt'ring, on the ground; then kiss'd his
child,
And danc'd him in his arms; then thus to
Jove
And to th' Immortals all address'd his
pray'r:
"Grant, Jove, and all ye Gods, that this
my son
May be, as I, the foremost man of Troy,
For valor fam'd, his country's guardian
King;
That men may say, 'This youth surpasses
far
His father,' when they see him from the
fight,
From slaughter'd foes, with bloody spoils
of war
Returning, to rejoice his mother's heart ! "
Thus saying, in his mother's arms he
plac'd
His child; she to her fragrant bosom
clasp'd,
Smiling through tears; with eyes of pitying
love
Hector beheld, and press'd her hand, and
thus
Address'd her — "Dearest, wring not thus
my heart!
For till my day of destiny is come,
No man may take my life; and when it
comes,
Nor brave nor coward can escape that day.
But go thou home, and ply thy household
cares,
The loom and distaff, and appoint thy
maids
Their sev'ral tasks; and leave to men of
Troy
And, chief of all to me, the toils of war."
Thus as he spoke, his horsehair-plumed
helm
Great Hector took; and homeward turn'd
his wife
With falt'ring steps, and shedding scalding
tears.
Arriv'd at valiant Hector's well-built house,
Her maidens press'd around her; and in all
Arose at once the sympathetic grief.
For Hector, yet alive, his household
mourn'd,
Deeming he never would again return,
Safe from the fight, by Grecian hands un-
harm'd.
Nor linger 'd Paris in his lofty halls;
But donn'd his armor, glitt'ring o'er with
brass,
And through the city pass'd with bounding
steps.
As some proud steed, at well-filPd manger
fed,
His halter broken, neighing, scours the
plain,
And revels in the widely-flowing stream
To bathe his sides; then tossing high his
head,
While o'er his shoulders streams his ample
mane,
Light borne on active limbs, in conscious
pride,
12
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
To the wide pastures of the mares he flies;
So Paris, Priam's son, from Ilium's height,
His bright arms flashing like the gorgeous
sun,
Hasten'd, with boastful mien, and rapid
step.
Hector he found, as from the spot he
turn'd
Where with his wife he late had converse
held;
Whom thus the godlike Paris first ad-
dress'd:
"Too long, good brother, art thou here
detain'd,
Impatient for the fight, by my delay;
Nor have I timely, as thou bad'st me,
come."
To whom thus Hector of the glancing
helm:
"My gallant brother, none who thinks
aright
Can cavil at thy prowess in the field;
For thou art very valiant; but thy will
Is weak and sluggish; and it grieves my
heart,
When from the Trojans, who in thy behalf
Such labors undergo, I hear thy name
Coupled with foul reproach! But go we
now!
Henceforth shall all be well, if Jove permit
That from our shores we chase th' invading
Greeks,
And to the ever-living Gods of Heav'n
In peaceful homes our free libations pour."
THE ODYSSEY
The Odyssey is the story of the sea-wanderings of Odysseus (Ulysses) after the fall of Troy, and of
the coming home of this much-enduring hero to his island kingdom of Ithaca. During his many years'
absence, his wife — the Queen, Penelope, type of perfect wifeliness — has been besieged by numerous
and arrogant suitors, who, scorning the youthful son, Telemachus, make free with the house and pos-
sessions of Odysseus, and urge Penelope to regard her husband as dead, and to marry one of them.
The Hero comes to his home in the guise of an humble stranger; he has made himself known to his
son, and has been recognized by his old nurse and his faithful dog, but is unknown to the suitors and to
Penelope. In this passage the climax of the story is reached, and Odysseus triumphs over his enemies.
The translation is that of William Cowper (1731-1800), published in 1791.
BOOK XXI
\
ARGUMENT
PENELOPE proposes to the suitors a contest with
the bow, herself the prize. They prove un-
able to bend the bow; when Ulysses having
with some difficulty possessed himself of it,
manages it with the utmost ease, and dis-
patches his arrow through twelve rings erected
for the trial.
MINERVA now, Goddess casrulean-eyed,
Prompted Icarius' daughter, the discrete
Penelope, with bow and rings to prove
Her suitors in Ulysses' courts, a game
Terrible in conclusion to them aS.
First, taking in her hand the brazen key
Well-forged, and fitted with an iv'ry grasp,
Attended by the women of her tram
She sought her inmost chamber, the recess
In which she kept the treasures of her
Lord,
His brass, his gold, and steel elaborate.
Here lay his stubborn bow, and quiver filPd
With num'rous shafts, a fatal store. That
bow
He had received and quiver from the hand
Of godlike Iphitus Eurytides,
Whom, in Messenia, in the house he met
Of brave Orsilochus. Ulysses came
Demanding payment of arrearage due
From all that land; for a Messenian fleet
Had borne from Ithaca three hundred
sheep,
With all their shepherds; for which cause,
ere yet
Adult, he voyaged to that distant shore,
Deputed by his sire, and by the Chiefs
Of Ithaca, to make the just demand.
But Iphitus had thither come to seek
Twelve mares and twelve mule colts which
he had lost,
A search that cost him soon a bloody
death.
For, coming to the house of Hercules
The valiant task-performing son of Jove.
He perish'd there, slam by his cruel host
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Who, heedless of heav'n's wrath, and of the
rights
Of his own board, first fed, then slaughter'd
him;
For in his house the mares and colts were
hidden.
He, therefore, occupied in that concern,
Meeting Ulysses there, gave him the bow
Which, erst, huge Eurytus had borne, and
which
Himself had from his dying sire received.
Ulysses, hi return, on him bestowed
A spear and sword, pledges of future love
And hospitality; but never more
They met each other at the friendly board,
For, ere that hour arrived, the son of Jove
Slew his own guest, the godlike Iphitus.
Thus came the bow into Ulysses' hands,
Which, never in his gallant barks he bore
To battle with him (though he used it oft
In times of peace), but left it safely stored
At home, a dear memorial of his friend.
Soon as, divinest of her sex [Penelope],
arrived
At that same chamber, with her foot she
press'd
The oaken threshold bright, on which the
hand
Of no mean architect had stretch'd the
line,
Who had erected also on each side
The posts on which the splendid portals
hung,
She loos'd the ring and brace, then intro-
duced
The key, and aiming at them from with-
out,
Struck back the bolts. The portals, at
that stroke,
Sent forth a tone deep as the pastur'd
bull's,
And flew wide open. She, ascending,
next,
The elevated floor on which the chests
That held her own fragrant apparel stood,
With lifted hand aloft took down the bow
In its embroider'd bow-case safe enclosed.
Then, sitting there, she lay'd it on her
knees,
Weeping aloud, and drew it from the case.
Thus weeping over it long time she sat.
Till satiate, at the last, with grief and tears
Descending by the palace steps she sought
Again the haughty suitors, with the bow
Elastic, and the quiver in her hand
Replete with pointed shafts, a deadly
store.
Her maidens, as she went, bore after her
A coffer fill'd with prizes by her Lord,
Much brass and steel; and when at length
she came,
Loveliest of women, where the suitors sat,
Between the pillars of the stately dome
Pausing, before her beauteous face she held
Her lucid veil, and by two matrons chaste
Supported, the assembly thus address'd.
Ye noble suitors hear, who rudely haunt
This palace of a Chief long absent hence,
Whose substance ye have now long tune
consumed,
Nor palliative have yet contrived, or could,
Save your ambition to make me a bride —
Attend this game to which I call you forth.
Now suitors! prove yourselves with this
huge bow
Of wide-renown'd Ulysses; he who draws
Easiest the bow, and who his arrow sends
Through twice six rings, he takes me to his
home,
And I must leave this mansion of my youth
Plenteous, magnificent, which, doubtless,
oft
I shall remember even in my dreams.
So saying, she bade Eumaeus lay the bow
Before them, and the twice six rings of
steel.
He wept, received them, and obey'd; nor
wept
The herdsman less, seeing the bow which
erst
His Lord had occupied; when at their tears
Indignant, thus, Antinoiis began.
Ye rural drones, whose purblind eyes
see not
Beyond the present hour, egregious fools!
Why weeping trouble ye the Queen, too
much
Before afflicted for her husband lost?
Either partake the banquet silently,
Or else go weep abroad, leaving the bow,
That stubborn test, to us; for none, I
judge,
None here shall bend this polish'd bow
with ease,
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Since in this whole assembly I discern
None like Ulysses, whom myself have seen
And recollect, though I was then a boy.
He said, but in his heart, meantime, the
hope
Cherish'd, that he should bend, himself,
the bow,
And pass the rings; yet was he destin'd
first
Of all that company to taste the steel
Of brave Ulysses' shaft, whom in that
house
He had so oft dishonor'd, and had urged
So oft all others to the like offence.
Amidst them, then, the sacred might arose
Of young Telemachus, who thus began.
Saturnian Jove questionless hath de-
prived
Me of all reason. My own mother, fam'd
For wisdom as she is, makes known to all
Her purpose to abandon this abode
And follow a new mate, while, heedless, I
Trifle and laugh as I were still a child.
But come, ye suitors! since the prize is
such,
A woman like to whom none can be found
This day in all Achaia; on the shores
Of sacred Pylus; in the cities proud
Of Argos or Mycenae; or even here
In Ithaca; or yet within the walls
Of black Epirus; and since this yourselves
Know also, wherefore should I speak her
praise?
Come then, delay not, waste not time in
vain
Excuses, turn not from the proof, but bend
The bow, that thus the issue may be
known.
I also will, myself, that task essay;
And should I bend the bow, and pass the
rings,
Then shall not my illustrious mother leave
Her son forlorn, forsaking this abode
To follow a new spouse, while I remain
Disconsolate, although of age to bear,
Successful as my sire, the prize away.
So saying, he started from his seat,
cast off
His purple cloak, and lay'd his sword aside,
Then fix'd, himself, the rings, furrowing
the earth
By line, and op'ning one long trench for all,
And stamping close the glebe. Amaze-
ment seized
All present, seeing with how prompt a skill
He executed, though untaught, his task.
Then, hasting to the portal, there he stood.
Thrice, struggling, he essay'd to bend the
bow,
And thrice desisted, hoping still to draw
The bow-string home, and shoot through
all the rings.
And now the fourth time striving with full
force
He had prevail'd to string it, but his sire
Forbad his eager efforts by a sign.
Then thus the royal youth to all around —
Gods! either I shall prove of little force
Hereafter, and for manly feats unapt,
Or I am yet too young, and have not
strength
To quell the aggressor's contumely. But
come —
(For ye have strength surpassing mine)
try ye
The bow, and bring this contest to an end.
He ceas'd, and set the bow down on the
floor,
Reclining it against the shaven panels
smooth
That lined the wall; the arrow next he
placed,
Leaning against the bow's bright-polish'd
horn,
And to the seat, whence he had ris'n, re-
turn'd.
Then thus Eupithes' son, Antinoiis spake.
My friends! come forth successive from
the right,
Where he who ministers the cup begins.
So spake Antinoiis, and his counsel
pleased.
Then, first, Leiodes, (Enop's son, arose.
He was their soothsayer, and ever sat
Beside the beaker, inmost of them all.
To him alone, of all, licentious deeds
Were odious, and, with indignation fired,
He witness'd the excesses of the rest.
He then took foremost up the shaft and
bow,
And, station'd at the portal, strove to
bend
But bent it not, fatiguing, first, his hands
Delicate and uncustom'd to the toil.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
He ceased, and the assembly thus bespake.
My friends, I speed not; let another try;
For many Princes shall this bow of life
Bereave, since death more eligible seems,
Far more, than loss of her, for whom we
meet
Continual here, expecting still the prize.
Some suitor, haply, at this moment, hopes
That he shall wed whom long he hath
desired,
Ulysses' wife, Penelope; let him
Essay the bow, and, trial made, address
His spousal offers to some other fair
Among the long-stoled Princesses of
Greece,
This Princess leaving his, whose proffer'd
gifts
Shall please her most, and whom the Fates
ordain.
He said, and set the bow down on the
floor,
Reclining it against the shaven panels
smooth
That lined the wall; the arrow, next, he
placed,
Leaning against the bow's bright-polish'd
horn,
And to the seat whence he had ris'n re-
turn'd.
Then him Antinoiis, angry, thus reproved.
What word, Leiodes, grating to our ears
Hath scap'd thy lips? I hear it with dis-
dain.
Shall this bow fatal prove to many a
Prince,
Because thou hast, thyself, too feeble
proved
To bend it? no. Thou wast not born to
bend
The unpliant bow, or to direct the shaft,
But here are nobler who shall soon prevail.
He said, and to Melanthius gave com-
mand,
The goat-herd. Hence, Melanthius, kin-
dle fire;
Beside it place, with fleeces spread, a form
Of ^length commodious; from within pro-
cure
A large round cake of suet next, with which
When we have chafed and suppled the
tough bow
Before the fire, we will again essay
To bend it, and decide the doubtful strife.
He ended, and Melanthius, kindling fire
Beside it placed, with fleeces spread, a form
Of length commodious; next, he brought
a cake
Ample and round of suet from within,
With which they chafed the bow, then
tried again
To bend, but bent it not ; superior strength
To theirs that task required. Yet two,
the rest
In force surpassing, made no trial yet,
Antinoiis, and Eurymachus the brave.
Then went the herdsman and the swine-
herd forth
Together; after whom, the glorious Chief
Himself the house left also, and when all
Without the court had met, with gentle
speech
Ulysses, then, the faithful pair address'd.
Herdsman! and thou, Eumaeus! shall I
keep
A certain secret close, or shall I speak
Outright? my spirit prompts me, and I will.
What welcome should Ulysses at your
hands
Receive, arriving suddenly at home,
Some God his guide; would ye the suitors
aid,
Or would ye aid Ulysses? answer true.
Then thus the chief intendant of his
herds.
Would Jove but grant me my desire, to see
Once more the Hero, and would some kind
Pow'r,
Restore him, I would shew thee soon an
arm
Strenuous to serve him, and a dauntless
heart'.
Eumaeus, also, fervently implored
The Gods in pray'r, that they would render
back
Ulysses to his home. He, then, convinced
Of their unfeigning honesty, began.
Behold him! I am he myself, arrived
After long suffrings in the twentieth year !
I know how welcome to yourselves alone
Of all my train I come, for I have heard
None others praying for my safe return.
I therefore tell you truth; should heav'n
subdue
The suitors under me, ye shall receive
i6
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Each at my hands a bride, with lands and
house
Near to my own, and ye shall be thence-
forth
Dear friends and brothers of the Prince
my son.
Lo! also this indisputable proof
That ye may know and trust me. View
it here.
It is the scar which in Parnassus erst
(Where with the sons I hunted of renown'd
Autolycus) I from a boar received.
So saying, he stripp'd his tatters, and
unveil'd
The whole broad scar; then, soon as they
had seen
And surely recognized the mark, each cast
His arms around Ulysses, wept, embraced
And press'd him to his bosom, kissing oft
His brows and shoulders, who as oft their
hands
And foreheads kiss'd, nor had the setting
sun
Beheld them satisfied, but that himself
Ulysses thus admonished them, and said.
Cease now from tears, lest any, coming
forth,
Mark and report them to our foes within.
Now, to the hall again, but one by one,
Not all at once, I foremost, then your-
selves,
And this shall be the sign. Full well I
know
That, all unanimous, they will oppose
Deliv'ry of the bow and shafts to me;
But thou (proceeding with it to my seat),
Eumaeus, noble friend! shalt give the bow
Into my grasp; then bid the women close
The massy doors, and should they hear a
groan
Or other noise made by the Princes shut
Within the hall, let none set step abroad,
But all work silent. Be the palace-door
Thy charge, my good Philcetius! key it fast
Without a moment's pause, and fix the
brace.
He ended, and, returning to the hall,
Resumed his seat; nor stay'd his servants
long
Without, but follow'd their illustrious
Lord.
Eurymachus was busily employ'd
Turning the bow, and chafing it before
The sprightly blaze, but, after all, could
find
No pow'r to bend it. Disappointment
wrung
A groan from his proud heart, and thus he
said.
Alas! not only for myself I grieve,
But grieve for all. Nor, though I mourn
the loss
Of such a bride, mourn I that loss alone,
(For lovely Grecians may be found no few
In Ithaca, and in the neighbor isles)
But should we so inferior prove at last
To brave Ulysses, that no force of ours
Can bend his bow, we are for ever shamed.
To whom Antinoiis, thus, Euphites' son.
Not so; (as even thou art well-assured
Thyself, Eurymachus!) but Phoebus claims
This day his own. Who then, on such a
day,
Would strive to bend it? Let it rather
rest.
And should we leave the rings where now
they stand,
I trust that none ent'ring Ulysses' house
Will dare displace them. Cup-bearer,
attend!
Serve all with wine, that, first, libation
made,
We may religiously lay down the bow.
Command ye too Melanthius, that he
drive
Hither the fairest goats of all his flocks
At dawn of day, that burning first, the
thighs
To the ethereal archer, we may make
New trial, and decide, at length, the strife.
So spake Antinoiis, and his counsel
pleased.
The heralds, then, pour'd water on their
hands,
While youths crown'd high the goblets
which they bore
From right to left, distributing to all.
When each had made libation, and had
drunk
Till well sufficed, then, artful to effect
His shrewd designs, Ulysses thus began.
Hear, 0 ye suitors of the illustrious
Queen,
My bosom's dictates. But I shall entreat
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Chiefly Eurymachus and the godlike youth
Antinoiis, whose advice is wisely giv'n.
Tamper no longer with the bow, but
leave
The matter with the Gods, who shall de-
cide
The strife to-morrow, fav'ring whom they
will.
Meantime, grant me the polish'd bow, that
I
May trial make among you of my force,
If I retain it still in like degree
As erst, or whether wand'ring and defect
Of nourishment have worn it all away.
He said, whom they with indignation
heard
Extreme, alarm'd lest he should bend the
bow,
And sternly thus Antinoiis replied.
Desperate vagabond! ah wretch de-
prived
Of reason utterly! art not content?
Esteem'st it not distinction proud enough
To feast with us the nobles of the land?
None robs thee of thy share, thou wit-
nessest
Our whole discourse, which, save thyself
alone,
No needy vagrant is allow'd to hear.
Thou art befool'd by wine, as many have
been,
Wide-throated drinkers, unrestrain'd by
rule.
Wine in the mansion of the mighty Chief
Pirithoiis, made the valiant Centaur mad,
Eurytion, at the Lapithsean feast.
He drank to drunkenness, and being
drunk,
Committed great enormities beneath
Pirithoiis' roof, and such as fill'd with rage
The Hero-guests, who therefore by his feet
Dragg'd him right through the vestibule,
amerced
Of nose and ears, and he departed thence
Provoked to frenzy by that foul disgrace.
Whence war between the human kind
arose
And the bold Centaurs — but he first in-
curred
By his ebriety that mulct severe.
Great evil, also, if thou bend the bow,
To thee I prophesy; for thou shalt find
Advocate or protector none in all
This people, but we will dispatch thee
hence
Incontinent on board a sable bark
To Echetus, the scourge of human kind,
From whom is no escape. Drink then in
peace,
And contest shun with younger men than
thou.
Him answer'd, then, Penelope discrete.
Antinoiis! neither seemly were the deed
Nor just, to maim or harm whatever guest
Whom here arrived Telemachus receives.
Canst thou expect, that should he even
prove
Stronger than ye, and bend the massy
bow,
He will conduct me hence to his own home,
And make me his own bride? No such
design
His heart conceives, or hope; nor let a
dread
So vain the mind of any overcloud
Who banquets here, since it dishonors me.
So she; to whom Eurymachus reply 'd,
Offspring of Polybus. O matchless Queen !
Icarius' prudent daughter! none suspects
That thou wilt wed with him; a mate so
mean
Should ill become thee; but we fear the
tongues
Of either sex, lest some Achaian say
Hereafter (one inferior far to us),
Ah! how unworthy are they to compare
With him whose wife they seek! to bend
his bow
Pass'd all their pow'r, yet this poor vaga-
bond,
Arriving from what country none can tell,
Bent it with ease, and shot through all the
rings.
So will they speak, and so shall we be
shamed.
Then answer, thus, Penelope return'd.
No fair report, Eurymachus, attends
Their names or can, who, riotous as ye,
The house dishonor, and consume the
wealth
Of such a Chief. Why shame ye thus
yourselves ?
The guest is of athletic frame, well form'd,
And large of limb; he boas tshim also sprung
i8
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
From noble ancestry. Come then — con-
sent—
Give him the bow, that we may see the
proof;
For thus I say, and thus will I perform;
Sure as he bends it, and Apollo gives
To him that glory, tunic fair and cloak
Shall be his meed from me, a javelin keen
To guard him against men and dogs, a
sword
Of double edge, and sandals for his feet,
And I will send him whither most he
would.
Her answer'd then prudent Telemachus.
Mother — the bow is mine; and, save my-
self,
No Greek hath right to give it, or refuse.
None who hi rock-bound Ithaca possess
Dominion, none in the steed-pastured isles
Of Elis, if I chose to make the bow
His own for ever, should that choice con-
trol.
But thou into the house repairing, ply
Spindle and loom, thy province, and enjoin
Diligence to thy maidens; for the bow
Is man's concern alone, and shall be mine
Especially, since I am master here.
She heard astonish'd, and the prudent
speech
Reposing of her son deep in her heart,
Withdrew; then mounting with her female
train
To her superior chamber, there she wept
Her lost Ulysses, till Minerva bathed
With balmy dews of sleep her weary lids.
And now the noble swine-herd bore the
bow
Toward Ulysses, but with one voice all
The suitors, clamorous, reproved the deed,
Of whom a youth, thus, insolent ex-
claim'd.
Thou clumsy swine-herd, whither bear'st
the bow,
Delirious wretch? the hounds that thou
hast train'd
Shall eat thee at thy solitary home
Ere long, let but Apollo prove, at last,
Propitious to us, and the Pow'rs of heav'n.
So they, whom hearing he replaced the
bow
Where erst it stood, terrified at the sound
Of such loud menaces; on the other side
Telemachus as loud assail'd his ear.
Friend! forward with the bow; or soon
repent
That thou obey'dst the many. I will else
With huge stones drive thee, younger as
I am,
Back to the field. My strength surpasses
thine.
I would to heav'n that I in force excell'd
As far, and prowess, every suitor here!
So would I soon give rude dismission hence
To some, who live but to imagine harm.
He ceased, whose words the suitors
laughing heard.
And, for their sake, in part their wrath
resign'd
Against Telemachus ; then through the hall
Eumaeus bore, and to Ulysses' hand
Consign'd the bow; next, summoning
abroad
The ancient nurse, he gave her thus in
charge.
It is the pleasure of Telemachus,
Sage Euryclea! that thou key secure
The doors; and should you hear, per-
chance, a groan
Or other noise made by the Princes shut
Within the hall, let none look, curious,
forth,
But each in quietness pursue her work.
So he; nor flew his words useless away,
But she, incontinent, shut fast the doors.
Then, noiseless, sprang Philcetius forth,
who closed
The portals also of the palace-court.
A ship-rope of ^Egyptian reed, it chanced,
Lay in the vestibule; with that he braced
The doors securely, and re-entring fill'd
Again his seat, but watchful, eyed his
Lord.
He, now, assaying with his hand the bow,
Made curious trial of it ev'ry way,
And turn'd it on all sides, lest haply worms
Had in its master's absence drill'd the
horn.
Then thus a suitor to his next remark'd.
He hath an eye, methinks, exactly
skill'd
In bows, and steals them; or perhaps, at
home,
Hath such himself, or feels a strong desire
To make them; so inquisitive the rogue
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Adept in mischief, shifts it to and fro!
To whom another, insolent, replied.
I wish him like prosperity in all
His efforts, as attends his effort made
On this same bow, which he shall never
bend.
So they; but when the wary Hero wise
Had made his hand familiar with the bow
Poising it and examining — at once —
As when in harp and song adept, a bard
Unlab'ring strains the chord to a new lyre,
The twisted entrails of a sheep below
With fingers nice inserting, and above,
With such facility Ulysses bent
His own huge bow, and with his right hand
play'd
The nerve, which in its quick vibration
sang
Clear as the swallow's voice. Keen an-
guish seized
The suitors, wan grew ev'ry cheek, and
Jove
Gave him his rolling thunder for a sign.
That omen, granted to him by the son
Of wily Saturn, with delight he heard.
He took a shaft that at the table-side
Lay ready drawn; but in his quiver's womb
The rest yet slept, by those Achaians proud
To be, ere long, experienced. True he
lodg'd
The arrow on the centre of the bow,
And, occupying still his seat, drew home
Nerve and notch'd arrow-head; with
stedfast sight
He aimed and sent it; right through all
the rings
From first to last the steel-charged weapon
flew
Issuing beyond, and to his son he spake.
Thou need'st not blush, young Prince,
to have received
A guest like me ; neither my arrow swerved,
Nor labor 'd I long time to draw the bow;
My strength is unimpair'd, not such as
these
In scorn affirm it. But the waning day
Calls us to supper, after which succeeds
Jocund variety, the song, the harp,
With all that heightens and adorns the
feast.
He said, and with his brows gave him
the sign.
At once the son of the illustrious Chief
Slung his keen faulchion, grasp'd his spear,
and stood
Arm'd bright for battle at his father's side.
BOOK XXII
ARGUMENT
ULYSSES, with some little assistance from Tele-
machus, Eumaeus and Philcetius, slays all the
suitors
THEN, girding up his rags, Ulysses sprang
With bow and full-charged quiver to the
door;
Loose on the broad stone at his feet he
pour'd
His arrows, and the suitors, thus, bespake.
This prize, though difficult, hath been
achieved.
Now for another mark which never man
Struck yet, but I will strike it if I may,
And if Apollo make that glory mine.
He said, and at Antinoiis aimed direct
A bitter shaft; he, purposing to drink,
Both hands advanced toward the golden
cup
Twin-ear'd, nor aught suspected death so
nigh.
For who, at the full banquet, could suspect
That any single guest, however brave,
Should plan his death, and execute the
blow?
Yet him Ulysses with an arrow pierced
Full in the throat, and through his neck
behind
Started the glitt'ring point. Aslant he
droop'd;
Down fell the goblet; through his nostrils
flew
The spouted blood, and spurning with his
foot
The board, he spread his viands in the
dust.
Confusion, when they saw Antinoiis fall'n,
Seized all the suitors; from the thrones
they sprang,
Flew ev'ry way, and on all sides explored
The palace-walls, but neither sturdy lance
As erst, nor buckler could they there dis-
cern,
30
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Then, furious, to Ulysses thus they spake.
Thy arrow, stranger, was ill-aimed; a
man
Is no just mark. Thou never shalt dispute
Prize more. Inevitable death is thine.
For thou hast slain a Prince noblest of all
In Ithaca, and shalt be vultures' food.
Various their judgments were, but none
believed
That he had slain him wittingly, nor saw
Th' infatuate men fate hov'ring o'er them
all.
Then thus Ulysses, louring dark, replied.
O dogs ! not fearing aught my safe return
From Ilium, ye have shorn my substance
close,
Lain with my women forcibly, and sought,
While yet I lived, to make my consort
yours,
Heedless of the inhabitants of heav'n
Alike, and of the just revenge of man.
But death is on the wing; death for you all.
He said; their cheeks all faded at the
sound,
And each with sharpen'd eyes search'd
ev'ry nook
For an escape from his impending doom.
Till thus, alone, Eurymachus replied.
If thou indeed art he, the mighty Chief
Of Ithaca return'd, thou hast rehears'd
With truth the crimes committed by the
Greeks
Frequent, both in thy house and in thy
field.
But he, already, who was cause of all,
Lies slain, Antinoiis, he thy palace fill'd
With outrage, not solicitous so much
To win the fan- Penelope, but thoughts
Far diff'rent framing, which Saturnian
Jove
Hath baffled all; to rule, himself, supreme
In noble Ithaca, when he had kill'd
By an insidious stratagem thy son.
But he is slain. Now therefore, spare
thy own,
Thy people; public reparation due
Shall sure be thine, and to appease thy
wrath
For all the waste that, eating, drinking
here
We have committed, we will yield thee,
each.
Full twenty beeves, gold paying thee beside
And brass, till joy shall fill thee at the
sight,
However just thine anger was before.
To whom Ulysses, frowning stern, re-
plied.
Eurymachus, would ye contribute each
His whole inheritance, and other sums
Still add beside, ye should not, even so,
These hands of mine bribe to abstain from
blood,
Till ev'ry suitor suffer for his wrong.
Ye have your choice. Fight with me, or
escape
(Whoever may) the terrors of his fate,
But ye all perish, if my thought be true.
He ended, they with trembling knees
and hearts
All heard, whom thus Eurymachus ad-
dress'd.
To your defence, my friends! for respite
none
Will he to his victorious hands afford,
But, arm'd with bow and quiver, will dis-
patch
Shafts from the door till he have slain us
all.
Therefore to arms — draw each his sword —
oppose
The tables to his shafts, and all at once
Rush on him; that, dislodging him at least
From portal and from threshold, we may
give
The city on all sides a loud alarm,
So shall this archer soon have shot his last.
Thus saying, he drew his brazen faul-
chion keen
Of double edge, and with a dreadful cry
Sprang on him; but Ulysses with a shaft
In that same moment through his bosom
driv'n
Transfix'd his liver, and down dropp'd his
sword.
He, staggering around his table, fell
Convolv'd in agonies, and overturn'd
Both food and wine; his forehead smote
the floor;
Woe fill'd his heart, and spurning with his
heels
His vacant seat, he shook it till he died.
Then, with his faulchion drawn, Amphi-
nomus
EPIC AND ROMANCE
21
Advanced to drive Ulysses from the door,
And fierce was his assault; but, from be-
hind,
Telemachus between his shoulders fix'd
A brazen lance, and urged it through his
breast.
Full on his front, with hideous sound, he
fell.
Leaving the weapon planted in his spine
Back flew Telemachus, lest, had he stood
Drawing it forth, some enemy, perchance,
Should either pierce him with a sudden
thrust
Oblique, or hew him with a downright
edge.
Swift, therefore, to his father's side he ran,
Whom reaching, in wing'd accents thus he
said.
My father! I will now bring thee a
shield,
An helmet, and two spears; I will enclose
Myself in armor also, and will give
Both to the herdsmen and Eumaeus arms
Expedient now, and needful for us all.
To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied.
Run ; fetch them, while I yet have arrows
left,
Lest, single, I be justled from the door.
He said, and, at his word, forth went
the Prince,
Seeking the chamber where he had secured
The armor. Thence he took four shields,
eight spears,
With four hair-crested helmets, charged
with which
He hasted to his father's side again,
And, arming first himself, furnish'd with
arms
His two attendants. Then, all clad alike
In splendid brass, beside the dauntless
Chief
Ulysses, his auxiliars firm they stood.
He, while a single arrow unemploy'd
Lay at his foot, right-aiming, ever pierced
Some suitor through, and heaps on heaps
they fell.
But when his arrows fail'd the royal Chief,
His bow reclining at the portal's side
Against the palace-wall, he slung, himself,
A four-fold buckler on his arm, he fix'd
A casque whose crest wav'd awful o'er his
brows
On his illustrious head, and fill'd his gripe
With two stout spears, well-headed, both,
with brass.
There was a certain postern in the wall
At the gate-side, the customary pass
Into a narrow street, but barr'd secure.
Ulysses bade his faithful swine-herd watch
That egress, station'd near it, for it own'd
One sole approach; then Agelalis loud
Exhorting all the suitors, thus exclaim'd.
Oh friends, will none, ascending to the
door
Of yonder postern, summon to our aid
The populace, and spread a wide alarm?
So shall this archer soon have shot his last.
To whom the keeper of the goats replied,
Melanthius. Agelaiis! Prince renown'd!
That may not be. The postern and the
gate
Neighbor too near each other, and to force
The narrow egress were a vain attempt;
One valiant man might thence repulse us
all.
But come — myself will furnish you with
arms
Fetch'd from above; for there, as I sup-
pose,
(And not elsewhere) Ulysses and his son
Have hidden them, and there they shall
be found.
So spake Melanthius, and, ascending,
sought
Ulysses' chambers through the winding
stairs
And gall'ries of the house. Twelve buck-
lers thence
He took, as many spears, and helmets
bright
As many, shagg'd with hair, then swift re-
turn'd
And gave them to his friends. Trembled
the heart
Of brave Ulysses, and his knees, at sight
Of his opposers putting armor on,
And shaking each his spear; arduous in-
deed
Now seem'd his task, and in wing'd ac-
cents brief
Thus to his son Telemachus he spake.
Either some woman of our train con-
trives
Hard battle for us, furnishing with arms
22
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
The suitors, or Melanthius arms them all.
Him answer'd then Telemachus discrete.
Father, this fault was mine, and be it
charged
On none beside; I left the chamber-door
Unbarr'd, which, more attentive than
myself,
Their spy perceived. But haste, Eumaeus,
shut
The chamber-door, observing well, the
while,
If any women of our train have done
This deed, or whether, as I more suspect,
Melanthius, Dolius' son, have giv'n them
arms.
Thus mutual they conferr'd; meantime,
again
Melanthius to the chamber flew in quest
Of other arms. Eumaeus, as he went,
Mark'd him, and to Ulysses thus he spake.
Laertes' noble son, for wiles renown'd!
Behold, the traitor, whom ourselves sup-
posed,
Seeks yet again the chamber ! Tell me plain,
Shall I, should I superior prove in force,
Slay him, or shall I drag him thence to
thee,
That he may suffer at thy hands the doom
Due to his treasons perpetrated oft
Against thee, here, even in thy own house?
Then answer thus Ulysses shrewd re-
turn'd.
I, with Telemachus, will here immew
The lordly suitors close, rage as they may.
Ye two, the while, bind fast Melanthius'
hands
And feet behind his back, then cast him
bound
Into the chamber, and (the door secured)
Pass underneath his arms a double chain,
And by a pillar's top weigh him aloft
Till he approach the rafters, there to en-
dure,
Living long time, the mis'ries he hath
earned.
He spake; they prompt obey'd; together
both
They sought the chamber, whom the
wretch within
Heard not, exploring ev'ry nook for arms.
They watching stood the door, from which,
at length,
Forth came Melanthius, bearing in one
hand
A casque, and in the other a broad shield
Time-worn and chapp'd with drought,
which in his youth
Warlike Laertes had been wont to bear.
Long time neglected it had lain, till age
Had loosed the sutures of its bands. At
once
Both, springing on him, seized and drew
him hi
Forcibly by his locks, then cast him down
Prone on the pavement, trembling at his
fate.
With painful stricture of the cord his hands
They bound and feet together at his back,
As their illustrious master had enjoined,
Then weigh'd him with a double chain(
aloft
By a tall pillar to the palace-roof,
And thus, deriding him, Eumaeus spake.
Now, good Melanthius, on that fleecy
bed
Reclined, as well befits thee, thou wilt
watch
All night, nor when the golden dawn for-
sakes
The ocean stream, will she escape thine
eye,
But thou wilt duly to the palace drive
The fattest goats, a banquet for thy
friends.
So saying, he left him in his dreadful
sling.
Then, arming both, and barring fast the
door,
They sought brave Laertiades again.
And now, courageous at the portal stood
Those four, by numbers in the interior
house
Opposed of adversaries fierce hi arms,
When Pallas, in the form and with the
voice
Approach'd of Mentor, whom Laertes' son
Beheld, and joyful at the sight, exclaim'd.
Help, Mentor! help — now recollect a
friend
And benefactor, born when thou wast
born.
So he, not unsuspicious that he saw
Pallas, the heroine of heav'n. Meantime
The suitors filTd with menaces the dome,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
And Agelaiis, first, Damastor's son,
In accents harsh rebuked the Goddess
thus.
Beware, O Mentor! that he lure thee
not
To oppose the suitors and to aid himself.
For thus will we. Ulysses and his son
Both slain, in vengeance of thy purpos'd
deeds
Against us, we will slay thee next, and thou
With thy own head shalt satisfy the wrong
Your force thus quell'd in battle, all thy
wealth
Whether in house or field, mingled with
his,
We will confiscate, neither will we leave
Or son of thine, or daughter in thy house
Alive, nor shall thy virtuous consort more
Within the walls of Ithaca be seen.
He ended, and his words with wrath
inflamed
Minerva's heart the more; incensed, she
turn'd
Towards Ulysses, whom she thus reproved.
Thou neither own'st the courage nor the
force,
Ulysses, now, which nine whole years
thou showd'st
At Ilium, waging battle obstinate
For high-born Helen, and in horrid fight
Destroying multitudes, till thy advice
At last lay'd Priam's bulwark'd city low.
Why, in possession of thy proper home
And substance, mourn'st thou want of
pow'r t'oppose
The suitors? Stand beside me, mark my
deeds,
And thou shalt own Mentor Alcimides
A valiant friend, and mindful of thy love.
She spake; nor made she victory as yet
Entire his own, proving the valor, first,
Both of the sire and of his glorious son,
But, springing in a swallow's form aloft,
Perch'd on a rafter of the splendid roof.
Then, Agelaiis animated loud
The suitors, whom Eurynomus also roused,
Amphimedon, and Demoptolemus,
And Polyctorides, Pisander named,
And Polybus the brave; for noblest far
Of all the suitor-chiefs who now survived
And fought for life were these. The bow
had quell'd
And shafts, in quick succession sent, the
rest.
Then Agelaiis, thus, harangued them all.
We soon shall tame, O friends, this
warrior's might,
Whom Mentor, after all his airy vaunts
Hath left, and at the portal now remain
Themselves alone. Dismiss not therefore,
all,
Your spears together, but with six alone
Assail them first; Jove willing, we shall
pierce
Ulysses, and subduing him, shall slay
With ease the rest; their force is safely
scorn'd.
He ceas'd; and, as he bade, six hurl'd the
spear
Together; but Minerva gave them all
A devious flight; one struck a column, one
The planks of the broad portal, and a third
Flung right his ashen beam pond'rous with
brass
Against the wall. Then (ev'ry suitor's
spear
Eluded) thus Ulysses gave the word —
Now friends! I counsel you that ye
dismiss
Your spears at them, who, not content with
past
Enormities, thirst also for our blood.
He said, and with unerring aim, all threw
Their glitt'ring spears. Ulysses on the
ground
Stretch 'd Demoptolemus; Euryades
Fell by Telemachus; the swine-herd slew
Elatus ; and the keeper of the beeves
Pisander; in one moment all alike
Lay grinding with their teeth the dusty
floor.
Back flew the suitors to the farthest wall,
On whom those valiant four advancing,
each
Recover'd, quick, his weapon from the
dead.
Then hurl'd the desp'rate suitors yet again
Their glitt'ring spears but Pallas gave to
each
A frustrate course; one struck a column.
one
The planks of the broad portal, and a third
Flung full his ashen beam against the
wall.
34
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Yet pierced Amphimedon the Prince's
wrist,
But slightly, a skin-wound, and o'er his
shield
Ctesippus reach'd the shoulder of the good
Eumseus, but his glancing weapon swift
O'erflew the mark, and fell. And now the
four,
Ulysses, dauntless Hero, and his friends
All hurl'd their spears together in return,
Himself Ulysses, city-waster Chief,
Wounded Eurydamas; Ulysses' son
Amphimedon; the swine-herd Polybus;
And in his breast the keeper of the beeves
Ctesippus, glorying over whom, he cried.
Oh son of Polytherses! whose delight
Hath been to taunt and jeer, never again
Boast foolishly, but to the Gods commit
Thy tongue, since they are mightier far
than thou.
Take this — a compensation for thy pledge
Of hospitality, the huge ox-hoof,
Which while he roam'd the palace, begging
alms,
Ulysses at thy bounteous hand received.
So gloried he; then, grasping still his
spear,
Ulysses pierced Damastor's son, and, next,
Telemachus, enforcing his long beam
Sheer through his bowels and his back,
transpierced
Leiocritus; he prostrate smote the floor.
Then, Pallas from the lofty roof held forth
Her host-confounding ^Egis o'er their
heads,
With'ring their souls with fear. They
through the hall
Fled, scatter'd as an herd, which rapid-
wing'd
The gad-fly dissipates, infester fell
Of beeves, when vernal suns shine hot and
long.
But, as when bow-beak'd vultures crooked-
claw'd
Stoop from the mountains on the smaller
fowl;
Terrified at the toils that spread the plain
The flocks take wing, they, darting from
above,
Strike, seize, and slay, resistance or escape
Is none, the fowler's heart leaps with de-
light,
•
So they, pursuing through the spacious
hall
The suitors, smote them on all sides, their
heads
Sounded beneath the sword, with hideous
groans
The palace rang, and the floor foamed with
blood.
Then flew Leiodes to Ulysses' knees,
Which clasping, in wing'd accents thus h(
cried.
I clasp thy knees, Uiysses ! on respect
My suit, and spare me! Never have
word
Injurious spoken, or injurious deed
Attempted 'gainst the women of thr
house,
But others, so transgressing, oft forbad.
Yet they abstain'd not, and a dreadful fate
Due to their wickedness have, therefore,
found.
But I, their soothsayer alone, must fall,
Though unoffending; such is the return
By mortals made for benefits received !
To whom Ulysses, louring dark, replied.
Is that thy boast? Hast thou indeed for
these
The seer's high office fill'd? Then, doubt-
less, oft
Thy pray'r hath been that distant far
might prove
The day delectable of my return,
And that my consort might thy own be-
come
To bear thee children; wherefore thee I
doom
To a dire death which thou shalt not avoid.
So saying, he caught the faulchion from
the floor
Which Agelaiis had let fall, and smote
Leiodes, while he kneel'd, athwart his neck
So suddenly, that ere his tongue had ceased
To plead for life, his head was in the dust.
But Phemius, son of Terpius, bard divine,
Who, through compulsion, with his song
regaled
The suitors, a like dreadful death escaped.
Fast by the postern, harp in hand, he
stood,
Doubtful if, issuing, he should take his
seat
Beside the altar of Hercaean Jove,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Where oft Ulysses offer'd, and his sire,
Fat thighs of beeves or whether he should
haste,
An earnest suppliant, to embrace his knees.
That course, at length, most pleased him;
then, between
The beaker and an argent-studded throne
He grounded his sweet lyre, and seizing
fast
The Hero's knees, him, suppliant, thus
address'd.
I clasp thy knees, Ulysses! oh respect
My suit, and spare me. Thou shalt not
escape
Regret thyself hereafter, if thou slay
Me, charmer of the woes of Gods and men.
Self-taught am I, and treasure in my mind
Themes of all argument from heav'n in-
spired,
And I can sing to thee as to a God.
Ah, then, behead me not. Put ev'n the
wish
Far from thee! for thy own beloved son
Can witness, that not drawn by choice, or
driv'n
By stress of want, resorting to thine house
I have regaled these revellers so oft,
But under force of mightier far than I.
So he; whose words soon as the sacred
might
Heard of Telemachus, approaching quick
His father, thus, humane, he interposed.
Hold, harm not with the vengeful faul-
chion's edge
This blameless man; and we will also spare
Medon the herald, who hath ever been
A watchful guardian of my boyish years,
Unless Philcetius have already slain him,
Or else Eumaeus, or thyself, perchance,
Unconscious, in the tumult of our foes.
He spake, whom Medon hearing (for he
lay
Beneath a throne, and in a new-stript hide
Enfolded, trembling with the dread of
death)
Sprang from his hiding-place, and casting
off
The skin, flew to Telemachus, embraced
His knees, and in wing'd accents thus
exclaim'd.
Prince ! I am here — oh, pity me ! repress
Thine own, and pacify thy father's wrath,
That he destroy not me, through fierce
revenge
Of their iniquities who have consumed
His wealth, and, in their folly scorn'd his
son.
To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied,
Smiling complacent. Fear not; my own
son
Hath pleaded for thee. Therefore (taught
thyself
That truth) teach others the superior
worth
Of benefits with injuries compared.
But go ye forth, thou and the sacred bard,
That ye may sit distant in yonder court
From all this carnage, while I give com-
mand,
Myself, concerning it, to those within.
He ceas'd; they going forth, took each
his seat
Beside Jove's altar, but with careful looks
Suspicious, dreading without cease the
sword.
Meantime Ulysses search'd his hall, in
quest
Of living foes, if any still survived
Unpunish'd; but he found them all alike
Welt'ring in dust and blood; num'rous
they lay
Like fishes when they strew the sinuous
shore
Of Ocean, from the gray gulph drawn
aground
In nets of many a mesh; they on the sands
Lie spread, athirst for the salt wave, til]
hot
The gazing sun dries all their life away;
So lay the suitors heap'd.
26
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
PUBLIUS VIRGILIUS MARO (B. C. 70-19)
THE ^ENEID
The noble story of the flight of ^Eneas with his companions from the sack of Troy, of their perilous
voyage to Carthage, where they were entertained by Queen Dido, of ^Eneas's desertion of her at the
bidding of Jupiter through his messenger Mercury, of his journey to Italy and the wars that ensued be-
fore he could fulfill his destiny in founding the city of Rome, is told in this great national epic of the
Roman race. For beauty of phrase and loftiness of spirit the poem is quite unrivalled.
Book II, which is here given, is the hero's own account, told to Dido, of the sacking of Troy by
the victorious Greeks and his escape from the burning city. The translation is by John Dryden, and
was first published in 1697.
BOOK II
ARGUMENT
/£NEAS relates how the city of Troy was taken
after a ten years' siege, by the treachery of
Sinon, and the stratagem of a wooden horse.
He declares the fix'd resolution he had taken
not to survive the rums of his country, and the
various adventures he met with in the defense
of it. At last, having been before advis'd by
Hector's ghost, and now by the appearance
of his mother Venus, he is prevail'd upon to
leave the town, and settle his household gods
in another country. In order to this, he carries
off his father on his shoulders, and leads his
little son by the hand, his wife following him
behind. When he comes to the place ap-
pointed for the general rendezvouze, he finds
a great confluence of people, but misses his
wife, whose ghost afterward appears to him,
and tells him the land which was design'd
for him.
ALL were attentive to the godlike man,
When from his lofty couch he thus began:
" Great queen, what you command me to
relate
Renews the sad remembrance of our fate:
An empire from its old foundations rent.
And ev'ry woe the Trojans underwent;
A peopled city made a desert place:
All that I saw, and part of which I was:
Not ev'n the hardest of our foes could
hear,
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear.
And now the latter watch of wasting night,
And setting stars, to kindly rest invite;
But, since you take such int'rest in our
woe,
And Troy's disastrous end desire to know,
I will restrain my tears, and briefly tell
What in our last and fatal night befell.
" By destiny compell'd, and in despair,
The Greeks grew weary of the tedious war,
And by Minerva's aid a fabric rear'd,
Which like a steed of monstrous height
appear'd:
The sides were plank'd with pine; they
feign'd it made
For their return, and this the vow they
paid.
Thus they pretend, but in the hollow side
Selected numbers of their soldiers hide:
With inward arms the dire machine they
load,
And iron bowels stuff the dark abode.
In sight of Troy lies Tenedos, an isle
(While Fortune did on Priam's empire
smile)
Renown'd for wealth; but, since, a faith-
less bay,
Where ships expos'd to wind and weather
lay.
There was their fleet conceal' d. We
thought, for Greece
Their sails were hoisted, and our fears re-
lease.
The Trojans, coop'd within then- walls so
long,
Unbar their gates, and issue in a throng,
Like swarming bees, and with delight sur-
vey
The camp deserted, where the Grecians
lay:
The quarters of the sev'ral chiefs the
show'd;
Here Phcenix, here Achilles, made abode;
Here join'd the battles; there the na^
rode.
Part on the pile their wond'ring eyes em-
EPIC AND ROMANCE
27
The pile by Pallas rais'd to ruin Troy.
Thymoetes first ('t is doubtful whether
hir'd,
Or so the Trojan destiny requir'd)
Mov'd that the ramparts might be broken
down,
Tc lodge the monster fabric in the town.
But Capys, and the rest of sounder mind,
The fatal present to the flames design'd,
Or to the wat'ry deep; at least to bore
The hollow sides, and hidden frauds ex-
plore.
The giddy vulgar, as their fancies guide,
With noise say nothing, and in parts di-
vide.
Laocoon, follow'd by a num'rous crowd,
Ran from the fort, and cried, from far,
aloud:
'0 wretched countrymen! what fury
reigns?
What more than madness has possess'd
your brains?
Think you the Grecians from your coasts
are gone?
And are Ulysses' arts no better known?
This hollow fabric either must inclose,
Within its blind recess, our secret foes;
Or 't is an engine rais'd above the town,
T' o'erlook the walls, and then to batter
down.
Somewhat is sure design'd, by fraud or
force :
Trust not their presents, nor admit the
horse.'
Thus having said, against the steed he
threw
His forceful spear, which, hissing as it flew,
Pierc'd thro' the yielding planks of jointed
wood,
And trembling in the hollow belly stood.
The sides, transpierc'd, return a rattling
sound,
And groans oi Greeks inclos'd come issuing
thro' the wound.
And, had not Heav'n the fall of Troy de-
sign'd,
Or had not men been fated to be blind,
Enough was said and done t' inspire a
better mind.
Ihen had our lances pierc'd the treach'rous
wood,
And Ilian tow'rs and Priam's empire stood.
Meantime, with shouts, the Trojan shep-
herds bring
A captive Greek, in bands, before the king;
Taken, to take; who made himself their
prey,
T ' impose on their belief, and Troy betray;
Fix'd on his aim, and obstinately bent
To die undaunted, or to circumvent.
About the captive, tides of Trojans flow;
All press to see, and some insult the foe.
Now hear how well the Greeks their wiles
disguis'd;
Behold a nation in a man compris'd.
Trembling the miscreant stood, unarm'd
and bound;
He star'd, and roll'd his haggard eyes
around,
Then said: 'Alas! what earth remains,
what sea
Is open to receive unhappy me?
What fate a wretched fugitive attends,
Scorn'd by my foes, abandon'd by my
friends?'
He said, and sigh'd, and cast a rueful eye:
Our pity kindles, and our passions die.
We cheer the youth to make his own de-
fense,
And freely tell us what he was, and whence :
What news he could impart, we long to
know,
And what to credit from a captive foe.
"His fear at length dismiss'd, he said:
'Whate'er
My fate ordains, my words shall be sin-
cere:
I neither can nor dare my birth disclaim;
Greece is my country, Sinon is my name.
Tho' plung'd by Fortune's pow'r in misery,
'Tis not in Fortune's pow'r to make me
lie.
If any chance has hither brought the name
Of Palamedes, not unknown to fame,
Who suffer'd from the malice of the times,
Accus'd and sentenc'd for pretended
crimes,
Because these fatal wars he would prevent;
Whose death the wretched Greeks too late
lament —
Me, then a boy, my father, poor and
bare
Of other means, committed to his care,
His kinsman and companion hi the war.
28
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
While Fortune favor'd, while his arms sup-
port
The cause, and ruFd the counsels, of the
court,
I made some figure there; nor was my
name
Obscure, nor I without my share of fame.
But when Ulysses, with fallacious arts,
Had made impression in the people's
hearts,
And forg'd a treason in my patron's name
(I speak of things too far divulg'd by
fame),
My kinsman fell. Then I, without sup-
port,
In private mourn'd his loss, and left the
court.
Mad as I was, I could not bear his fate
With silent grief, but loudly blam'd the
state,
And curs'd the direful author of my woes.
'T was told again; and hence my ruin rose.
I threaten'd, if indulgent Heav'n once
more
Would land me safely on my native shore,
His death with double vengeance to re-
store.
This mov'd the murderer's hate; and soon
ensued
Th' effects of malice from a man so proud.
Ambiguous rumors thro' the camp he
spread,
And sought, by treason, my devoted head;
New crimes invented; left unturn'd no
stone,
To make my guilt appear, and hide his
own;
Till Calchas was by force and threat'ning
wrought —
But why — why dwell I on that anxious
thought?
If on my nation just revenge you seek,
And 't is t'appear a foe, t' appear a Greek;
Already you my name and country know;
Assuage your thirst of blood, and strike the
blow:
My death will both the kingly brothers
please,
And set insatiate Ithacus at ease.'
This fair unfmish'd tale, these broken
starts,
Rais'd expectations in our longing hearts:
Unknowing as we were in Grecian arts.
His former trembling once again renew'd,
With acted fear, the villain thus pursued:
'"Long had the Grecians (tir'd with
fruitless care,
And wearied with an unsuccessful war)
Resolv'd to raise the siege, and leave the
town;
And, had the gods permitted, they had
gone;
But oft the wintry seas and southern winds
Withstood their passage home, and chang'd
their minds.
Portents and prodigies their souls amaz'd;
But most, when this stupendous pile was
rais'd:
Then flaming meteors, hung in air, were
seen,
And thunders rattled thro' a sky serene.
Dismay'd, and fearful of some dire event,
Eurypylus t' enquire their fate was sent.
He from the gods this dreadful answer
brought:
"O Grecians, when the Trojan shores you
sought,
Your passage with a virgin's blood was
bought:
So must your safe return be bought again,
And Grecian blood once more atone the
main."
The spreading rumor round the people
ran;
All fear'd, and each believ'd himself the
man.
Ulysses took th' advantage of their fright;
Call'd Calchas, and produc'd in open sight:
Then bade him name the wretch, ordain'd
by fate
The public victim, to redeem the state.
Already some presag'd the dire event,
And saw what sacrifice Ulysses meant.
For twice five days the good old seer with-
stood
Th' intended treason, and was dumb
blood,
Till, tir'd with endless clamors and pursuit
Of Ithacus, he stood no longer mute;
But, as it was agreed, pronounc'd that I
Was destin'd by the wrathful gods to die.
All prais'd the sentence, pleas'd the storir
should fall
On one alone, whose fury threaten'd all.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
29
The dismal day was come; the priests
prepare
Their leaven'd cakes, and fillets for my
hair.
I foflow'd nature's laws, and must avow
I broke my bonds and fled the fatal blow.
Hid in a weedy lake all night I lay,
Secure of safety when they sail'd away.
But now what further hopes for me re-
main,
To see my friends, or native soil, again;
My tender infants, or my careful sire,
Whom they returning will to death re-
quire;
Will perpetrate on them their first design,
And take the forfeit of their heads for
mine?
Which, O! if pity mortal minds can move,
If there be faith below, or gods above,
If innocence and truth can claim desert,
Ye Trojans, from an injur'd wretch avert.'
"False tears true pity move; the king
commands
To loose his fetters, and unbind his hands:
Then adds these friendly words: 'Dismiss
thy fears;
Forget the Greeks; be mine as thou wert
theirs.
But truly tell, was it for force or guile,
Or some religious end, you rais'd the pile? '
Thus said the king. He, full of fraudful
arts,
This well-invented tale for truth imparts:
'Ye lamps of heav'n!' he said, and lifted
high
His hands now free, 'thou venerable sky!
Inviolable pow'rs, ador'd with dread!
Ye fatal fillets, that once bound this head!
Ye sacred altars, from whose flames I fled!
Be all of you adjur'd; and grant I may,
Without a crime, th' ungrateful Greeks
betray,
Reveal the secrets of the guilty state,
And justly punish whom I justly hate!
But you, O king, preserve the faith you
gave,
If I, to save myself, your empire save.
The Grecian hopes, and all th' attempts
they made,
Were only founded on Minerva's aid.
But from the time when impious Diomede,
And false Ulysses, that inventive head,
Her fatal image from the temple drew,
The sleeping guardians of the castle slew,
Her virgin statue with their bloody hands
Polluted, and profan'd her holy bands;
From thence the tide of fortune left their
shore,
And ebb'd much faster than it flow'd be-
fore:
Their courage languish'd, as their hopes
decay 'd;
And Pallas, now averse, refus'd her aid.
Nor did the goddess doubtfully declare
Her alter'd mind and alienated care.
When first her fatal image touch'd the
ground,
She sternly cast her glaring eyes around,
That sparkled as they roll'd, and seem'd to
threat:
Her heav'nly limbs distill'd'a briny sweat.
Thrice from the ground she leap'd, was
seen to wield
Her brandish'd lance, and shake her horrid
shield.
Then Calchas bade our host for flight pre-
pare,
And hope no conquest from the tedious
war,
Till first they sail'd for Greece; with
pray'rs besought
Her injur'd pow'r, and better omens
brought.
And now their navy plows the wat'ry
mam,
Yet soon expect it on your shores again,
With Pallas pleas'd; as Calchas did or-
dain.
But first, to reconcile the blue-ey'd maid
For her stol'n statue and her tow'r be-
tray'd,
Warn'd by the seer, to her offended name
We rais'd and dedicate this wondrous
frame,
So lofty, lest thro' your forbidden gates
It pass, and intercept our better fates:
For, once admitted there, our hopes are
lost;
And Troy may then a new Palladium
boast;
For so religion and the gods ordain,
That, if you violate with hands profane
Minerva's gift, your town in flames shall
burn,
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
(Which omen, O ye gods, on Graecia turn!)
But if it climb, with your assisting hands,
The Trojan walls, and hi the city stands;
Then Troy shall Argos and Mycenae burn,
And the reverse of fate on us return.'
" With such deceits he gain'd their easy
hearts,
Too prone to credit his perfidious arts.
What Diomede, nor Thetis' greater son,
A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege, had
done —
False tears and fawning words the city won.
"A greater omen, and of worse portent,
Did our unwary minds with fear torment,
Concurring to produce the dire event.
Laocoon, Neptune's priest by lot that year,
With solemn pomp then sacrific'd a steer;
When, dreadful to behold, from sea we
spied
Two serpents, rank'd abreast, the seas
divide,
And smoothly sweep along the swelling
tide.
Their flaming crests above the waves they
show;
Their bellies seem to burn the seas below;
Their speckled tails advance to steer their
course,
And on the sounding shore the flying
billows force.
And now the strand, and now the plain
they held;
Their ardent eyes with bloody streaks were
fill'd;
Their nimble tongues they brandish'd as
they came,
And lick'd their hissing jaws, that sputter'd
flame.
We fled amaz'd; their destin'd way they
take,
And to Laocoon and his children make;
And first around the tender boys they
wind,
Then with their sharpen'd fangs their
limbs and bodies grind.
The wretched father, running to their aid
With pious haste, but vain, they next in-
vade;
Twice round his waist then: winding vol-
umes roll'd;
And twice about his gasping throat they
fold,
The priest thus doubly chok'd, their crests
divide,
And tow'ring o'er his head in triumph
ride.
With both his hands he labors at the
knots;
His holy fillets the blue venom blots;
His roaring fills the flitting air around.
Thus, when an ox receives a glancing
wound,
He breaks his bands, the fatal altar flies,
And with loud bellowings breaks the yield-
ing skies.
Their tasks perform'd, the serpents quit
their prey,
And to the tow'r of Pallas make their way:
Couch'd at her feet, they lie protected
there
By her large buckler and protended spear.
Amazement seizes all; the gen'ral cry
Proclaims Laocoon justly doom'd to die,
Whose hand the will of Pallas had with-
stood,
And dar'd to violate the sacred wood.
All vote t' admit the steed, that vows be
paid
And incense offer'd to th' offended maid.
A spacious breach is made; the town lies
bare;
Some hoisting-levers, some the wheels pre-
pare
And fasten to the horse's feet; the rest
With cables haul along th' unwieldy beast.
Each on his fellow for assistance calls;
At length the fatal fabric mounts the walls,
Big with destruction. Boys with chaplets
crown'd,
And choirs of virgins, sing and dance
around.
Thus rais'd aloft, and then descending
down,
It enters o'er our heads, and threats the
town.
O sacred city, built by hands divine!
O valiant heroes of the Trojan line!
Four times he struck: as oft the clashing
sound
Of arms was heard, and inward groans re-
bound.
Yet, mad with zeal, and blinded with our
fate,
We haul along the horse in solemn state;
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Then place the dire portent within the
tow'r.
Cassandra cried, and curs'd th' unhappy
hour;
Foretold our fate; but, by the god's de-
cree,
All heard, and none believ'd the prophecy.
With branches we the fanes adorn, and
waste,
In jollity, the day ordain'd to be the last.
Meantime the rapid heav'ns roll'd down
the light,
And on the shaded ocean rush'd the night;
Our men, secure, nor guards nor sentries
held,
But easy sleep their weary limbs com-
pell'd.
The Grecians had embark'd their naval
pow'rs
From Tenedos, and sought our well-known
shores,
Safe under covert of the silent night,
lAnd guided by th' imperial galley's light;
When Sinon, favor'd by the partial gods,
Unlock'd the horse, and op'd his dark
abodes;
Restor'd to vital air our hidden foes,
Who joyful from their long confinement
rose.
Tysander bold, and Sthenelus their guide,
And dire Ulysses down the cable slide:
Then Thoas, Athamas, and Pyrrhus haste;
Nor was the Podalirian hero last,
Nor injur'd Menelaiis, nor the fam'd
Epeiis, who the fatal engine fram'd.
A nameless crowd succeed; their forces join
T' invade the town, oppress'd with sleep
and wine.
Those few they find awake first meet their
fate;
Then to their fellows they unbar the gate.
" 'T was in the dead of night, when sleep
repairs
Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with
cares,
When Hector's ghost before my sight ap-
pears:
A bloody shroud he seem'd, and bath'd in
tears;
Such as he was, when, by Pelides slain,
Thessalian coursers dragg'd him o'er the
plain.
Swol'n were his feet, as when the thongs
were thrust
Thro' the bor'd holes; his body black with
dust;
Unlike that Hector who return'd from toils
Of war, triumphant, in ^Eacian spoils,
Or him who made the fainting Greeks re-
tire,
And launch'd against their navy Phrygian
fire.
His hah- and beard stood stiffen'd with his
gore;
And all the wounds he for his country bore
Now stream'd afresh, and with new purple
ran.
I wept to see the visionary man,
And, while my trance continued, thus
began:
'0 light of Trojans, and support of Troy,
Thy father's champion, and thy country's
joy!
O, long expected by thy friends! from
whence
Art thou so late return'd for our defense?
Do we behold thee, wearied as we are
With length of labors, and with toils oi
war?
After so many fun'rals of thy own
Art thou restor'd to thy declining town?
But say, what wounds are these? What
new disgrace
Deforms the manly features of thy face? :
"To this the specter no reply did frame.
But answer'd to the cause for which he
came,
And, groaning from the bottom of his
breast,
This warning in these mournful words ex-
press'd:
'O goddess-born! escape, by timely flight.
The flames and horrors of this fatal night.
The foes already have possess'd the wall;
Troy nods from high, and totters to her
fall.
Enough is paid to Priam's royal name,
More than enough to duty and to fame.
If by a mortal hand my father's throne
Could be defended, 't was by mine alone.
Now Troy to thee commends her future
state,
And gives her gods companions of thy
fate:
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
From their assistance happier walls ex-
pect,
Which, wand'ring long, at last thou shalt
erect.'
He said, and brought me, from their blest
abodes,
The venerable statues of the gods,
With ancient Vesta from the sacred choir,
The wreaths and relics of th' immortal fire.
"Now peals of shouts come thund'ring
from afar.
Cries, threats, and loud laments, and min-
gled war:
The noise approaches, tho' our palace stood
Aloof from streets, encompass'd with a
wood.
Louder, and yet more loud, I hear th'
alarms
Of human cries distinct, and clashing arms.
Fear broke my slumbers; I no longer stay,
But mount the terrace, thence the town
survey,
And hearken what the frightful sounds
convey.
Thus, when a flood of fire by wind is borne,
Crackling it rolls, and mows the standing
corn;
Or deluges, descending on the plains,
Sweep o'er the yellow year, destroy the
pains
Of lab'ring oxen and the peasant's gains;
Unroot the forest oaks, and bear away
Flocks, folds, and trees, an undistinguish'd
prey:
The shepherd climbs the cliff, and sees
from far
The wasteful ravage of the wat'ry war.
Then Hector's faith was manifestly clear 'd,
And Grecian frauds in open light appear'd.
The palace of Dei'phobus ascends
In smoky flames, and catches on his
friends.
Ucalegon burns next: the seas are bright
With splendor not their own, and shine
with Trojan light.
New clamors and new clangors now arise,
The sound of trumpets mix'd with fighting
cries.
With frenzy seiz'd. I run to meet th3
alarms,
Resolv'd on death, resolv'd to die in
arms.
But first to gather friends, with them t' op
pose
(If fortune favor'd) and repel the foes;
Spurr'd by my courage, by my country
fir'd,
With sense of honor and revenge inspir'd.
"Pantheus, Apollo's priest, a sacred
name,
Had scap'd the Grecian swords, and pass'd
the flame:
With relics loaden, to my doors he fled,
And by the hand his tender grandson led.
' What hope, O Pantheus? whither can we
run?
Where make a stand? and what may yet
be done? '
Scarce had I said, when Pantheus, with a
groan:
'Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town!
The fatal day, th' appointed hour, is come,
When wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom
Transfers the Trojan state to Grecian
hands.
The fire consumes the town, the foe com-
mands;
And armed hosts, an unexpected force,
Break from the bowels of the fatal horse.
Within the gates, proud Sinon throws
about
The flames; and foes for entrance press
without,
With thousand others, whom I fear to
name,
More than from Argos or Mycenae came.
To sev'ral posts their parties they divide;
Some block the narrow streets, some scour
the wide:
The bold they kill, th' unwary they sur-
prise;
Who fights finds death, and death finds
him. who flies.
The warders of the gate but scarce main-
tain
Th' unequal combat, and resist in vain.'
"I heard; and Heav'n, that well-born
souls inspires,
Prompts me thro' lifted swords and rising
fires
To run where clashing arms and clamor
calls,
And rush undaunted to defend the walls,
Ripheus and Iph'itus by my side engage,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
33
For valor one renown'd, and one for age.
Dymas and Hypanis by moonlight knew
My motions and my mien, and to my
party drew;
With young Corcebus, who by love was
led
To win renown and fair Cassandra's bed,
And lately brought his troops to Priam's
aid,
Forewarn'd in vain by the prophetic maid.
Whom when I saw resolv'd in arms to fall,
And that one spirit animated all:
'Brave souls!' said I, — 'but brave, alas!
in vain —
Come, finish what our cruel fates ordain.
You see the desp'rate state of our affairs,
And heav'n's protecting pow'rs are deaf to
pray'rs.
The passive gods behold the Greeks defile
Their temples, and abandon to the spoil
Their own abodes: we, feeble few, conspire
To save a sinking town, involv'd in fire.
Then let us fall, but fall amidst our foes:
Despair of life the means of living shows.'
So bold a speech incourag'd their desire
Of death, and added fuel to their fire.
"As hungry wolves, with raging appe-
tite,
Scour thro' the fields, nor fear the stormy
night —
Their whelps at home expect the promis'd
food,
And long to temper their dry chaps in
blood —
So rush'd we forth at once; resolv'd to die,
Resolv'd, in death, the last extremes to try.
We leave the narrow lanes behind, and
dare
Th' unequal combat in the public square:
Night was our friend; our leader was
despair.
What tongue can tell the slaughter of that
night?
What eyes can weep the sorrows and
affright?
An ancient and imperial city falls;
The streets are fill'd with frequent funerals;
Houses and holy temples float in blood,
And hostile nations make a common flood.
Not only Trojans fall; but, in their turn,
The vanquish'd triumph, and the victors
mourn.
Ours take new courage from despair and
night:
Confus'd the fortune is, confus'd the fight.
All parts resound with tumults, plaints,
and fears;
And grisly Death in sundry shapes ap-
pears.
Androgeos fell among us, with his band,
Who thought us Grecians newly come to
land.
'From whence,' said he, 'my friends, this
long delay?
You loiter, while the spoils are borne away:
Our ships are laden with the Trojan store;
And you, like truants, come too late
ashore.'
He said, but soon corrected his mistake,
Found, by the doubtful answers which we
make:
Amaz'd, he would have shunn'd th' un-
equal fight;
But we, more num'rous, intercept his
flight.
As when some peasant, in a bushy brake,
Has with unwary footing press'd a snake;
He starts aside, astonish'd, when he spies
His rising crest, blue neck, and rolling
eyes;
So from our arms surpris'd Androgeos flies.
In vain; for him and his we compass'd
round,
Possess'd with fear, unknowing of the
ground,
And of their lives an easy conquest found.
Thus Fortune on our first endeavor smil'd.
Corcebus then, with youthful hopes be-
guil'd,
Swoln with success, and of a daring mind,
This new invention fatally design'd.
'My friends,' said he, 'since Fortune shows
the way,
'Tis fit we should th' auspicious guide
obey.
For what has she these Grecian arms
bestow'd,
But their destruction, and the Trojans'
good?
Then ehange we shields, and their devices
bear:
Let fraud supply the want of force in war.
They find us arms.' This said, himself he
dress'd
34
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
In dead Androgeos' spoils, his upper vest,
His painted buckler, and his plumy crest.
Thus Ripheus, Dymas, all the Trojan
train,
Lay down their own attire, and strip the
skin.
Mix'd with the Greeks, we go with ill
presage,
Flatter'd with hopes to glut our greedy
rage;
Unknown, assaulting whom we blindly
meet,
And strew with Grecian carcasses the
street.
Thus while their straggling parties we
defeat,
Some to the shore and safer ships retreat;
And some, oppress'd with more ignoble
fear,
Remount the hollow horse, and pant in
secret there.
"But, ah! what use of valor can be
made,
When heav'n's propitious pow'rs refuse
their aid!
Behold the royal prophetess, the fair
Cassandra, dragg'd by her dishevel'd hair,
Whom not Minerva's shrine, nor sacred
bands,
In safety could protect from sacrilegious
hands:
On heav'n she cast her eyes, she sigh'd,
she cried —
'T was all she could — her tender arms
were tied.
So sad a sight Corcebus could not bear;
But, fir'd with rage, distracted with de-
spair,
Amid the barb'rous ravishers he flew:
Our leader's rash example we pursue.
But storms of stones, from the proud tem-
ple's height,
Pour down, and on our batter'd helms
alight:
We from our friends receiv'd this fatal
blow,
Who thought us Grecians, as we seem'd
in show.
They aim at the mistaken crests, from
high;
And ours beneath the pond'rous ruin lie.
Then, mov'd with anger and disdain, to see
Their troops dispers'd, the royal virgin
free,
The Grecians rally, and their pow'rs unite,
With fury charge us, and renew the fight.
The brother kings with Ajax join their
force,
And the whole squadron of Thessalian
horse.
"Thus, when the rival winds their quar-
rel try,
Contending for the kingdom of the sky,
South, east, and west, on airy coursers
borne;
The whirlwind gathers, and the woods are
torn:
Then Nereus strikes the deep; the billows
rise,
And, mix'd with ooze and sand, pollute the
skies.
The troops we squander'd first again ap-
pear
From sev'ral quarters, and enclose the
rear.
They first observe, and to the rest betray,
Our diff'rent speech; our borrow'd arms
survey.
Oppress'd with odds, we fall; Corcebus
first,
At Pallas' altar, by Peneleus pierc'd.
Then Ripheus follow'd, in th' unequal
fight;
Just of his word, observant of the right:
Heav'n thought not so. Dymas their fate
attends,
With Hypanis, mistaken by their friends.
Nor, Pantheus, thee, thy miter, nor the
bands
Of awful Phcebus, sav'd from impious
hands.
Ye Trojan flames, your testimony bear,
What I perform'd, and what I suffer'd
there;
No sword avoiding in the fatal strife,
Expos'd to death, and prodigal of life!
Witness, ye heav'ns! I live not by my
fault:
I strove to have deserv'd the death I
sought.
But, when I could not fight, and would
have died,
Borne off to distance by the growing tide,
Old Iphitus and I were hurried thence,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
With Pelias wounded, and without de-
fense.
New clamors from th' invested palace ring:
We run to die, or disengage the king.
So hot th' assault, so high the tumult
rose,
While ours defend, and while the Greeks
oppose,
As all the Dardan and Argolic race
Had been contracted in that narrow space;
Or as all Ilium else were void of fear,
And tumult, war, and slaughter, only
there.
Their targets in a tortoise cast, the foes,
Secure advancing, to the turrets rose:
Some mount the scaling ladders; some,
more bold,
Swerve upwards, and by posts and pillars
hold;
Their left hand gripes their bucklers in th'
ascent,
While with the right they seize the battle-
ment.
From their demolish'd tow'rs the Trojans
throw
Huge heaps of stones, that, falling, crush
the foe;
And heavy beams and rafters from the
sides
(Such arms their last necessity provides)
And gilded roofs, come tumbling from on
high,
The marks of state and ancient royalty.
The guards below, fix'd in the pass, attend
The charge undaunted, and the gate de-
fend.
Renew'd in courage with recover'd breath,
A second time we ran to tempt our death,
To clear the palace from the foe, succeed
The weary living, and revenge the dead.
"A postern door, yet unobserv'd and
free,
Join'd by the length of a blind gallery,
To the king's closet led: a way well known
To Hector's wife, while Priam held the
throne,
Thro' which she brought Astyanax, un-
seen,
To cheer his grandsire and his grandsire's
queen.
Thro' this we pass, and mount the tow'r,
from whence
With unavailing arms the Trojans make
defense.
From this the trembling king had oft de-
scried
The Grecian camp, and saw their navy
ride.
Beams from its lofty height with swords
we hew,
Then, wrenching with our hands, th' as-
sault renew;
And, where the rafters on the columns
meet,
We push them headlong with our arms and
feet.
The lightning flies not swifter than the fall,
Nor thunder louder than the ruin'd wall:
Down goes the top at once; the Greeks be-
neath
Are piecemeal torn, or pounded into death.
Yet more succeed, and more to death are
sent;
We cease not from above, nor they below
relent.
Before the gate stood Pyrrhus, threat'ning
loud,
With glitt'ring arms conspicuous in the
crowd.
So shines, renew'd in youth, the crested
snake,
Who slept the winter in a thorny brake,
And, casting off his slough when spring
returns,
Now looks aloft, and with new glory burns ;
Restor'd with pois'nous herbs, his ardent
sides
Reflect the sun; and rais'd on spires he
rides;
High o'er the grass, hissing he rolls along,
And brandishes by fits his forky tongue.
Proud Periphas, and fierce Automedon,
His father's charioteer, together run
To force the gate; the Scyrian infantry
Rush on in crowds, and the barr'd passage
free.
Ent'ring the court, with shouts the skies
they rend;
And flaming firebrands to the roofs ascend.
Himself, among the foremost, deals his
blows,
And with his ax repeated strokes bestows
On the strong doors; then all their should-
ers ply,
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Till from the posts the brazen hinges fly.
He hews apace; the double bars at length
Yield to his ax and unresisted strength.
A mighty breach is made: the rooms con-
ceal'd
Appear, and all the palace is reveal'd;
The halls of audience, and of public state,
And where the lonely queen in secret sate.
Arm'd soldiers now by trembling maids are
seen,
With not a door, and scarce a space, be-
tween.
The house is fill'd with loud laments and
cries,
And shrieks of women rend the vaulted
skies;
The fearful matrons run from place to
place,
And kiss the thresholds, and the posts em-
brace.
The fatal work inhuman Pyrrhus plies,
And all his father sparkles in his eyes;
Nor bars, nor fighting guards, his force sus-
tain:
The bars are broken, and the guards are
slain.
In rush the Greeks, and all the apartments
fill;
Those few defendants whom they find,
they kill.
Not with so fierce a rage the foaming flood
Roars, when he finds his rapid course with-
stood;
Bears down the dams with unresisted
sway,
And sweeps the cattle and the cots away.
These eyes beheld him when he march'd
between
The brother kings: I saw th' unhappy
queen,
The hundred wives, and where old Priam
stood,
To stain his hallow'd altar with his blood.
The fifty nuptial beds (such hopes had he,
So large a promise, of a progeny),
The posts, of plated gold, and hung with
spoils,
Fell the reward of the proud victor's toils.
Where'er the raging fire had left a space,
The Grecians enter and possess the place.
"Perhaps you may of Priam's fate en-
quire.
He, when he saw his regal town on fire,
His ruin'd palace, and his ent'ring foes,
On ev'ry side inevitable woes,
In arms, disus'd, invests his limbs, de-
cay'd,
Like them, with age; a late and useless aid.
His feeble shoulders scarce the weight
sustain;
Loaded, not arm'd, he creeps along with
pain,
Despairing of success, ambitious to be
slain!
Uncover'd but by heav'n, there stood in
view
An altar; near the hearth a laurel grew,
Dodder'd with age, whose boughs encom-
pass round
The household gods, and shade the holy
ground.
Here Hecuba, with all her helpless train
Of dames, for shelter sought, but sought in
vain.
Driv'n like a flock of doves along the sky,
Their images they hug, and to their altars
fly.
The queen, when she beheld her trembling
lord,
And hanging by his side a heavy sword,
'What rage,' she cried, 'has seiz'd my hus-
band's mind?
What arms are these, and to what use de-
sign'd?
These tunes want other aids! Were Hec-
tor here,
Ev'n Hector now in vain, like Priam, would
appear.
With us, one common shelter thou shalt
find,
Or in one common fate with us be join'd.'
She said, and with a last salute embrac'd
The poor old man, and by the laurel plac'd.
Behold! Polites, one of Priam's sons,
Pursued by Pyrrhus, there for safety runs.
Thro' swords and foes, amaz'd and hurt, he
flies
Thro' empty courts and open galleries.
Him Pyrrhus, urging with his lance, pur-
sues,
And often reaches, and his thrusts renews.
The youth, transfix'd, with lamentable
cries,
Expires before his wretched parent's eyes:
EPIC AND ROMANCE
37
Whom gasping at his feet when Priam saw,
The fear of death gave place to nature's
law;
And, shaking more with anger than with
age,
'The gods,' said he, 'requite thy brutal
rage!
As sure they will, barbarian, sure they
must,
If there be gods in heav'n, and gods be
just —
Who tak'st in wrongs an insolent delight;
With a son's death t' infect a father's
sight.
Not he, whom thou and lying fame con-
spire
To call thee his — not he, thy vaunted sire,
Thus us'd my wretched age: the gods he
fear'd,
The laws of nature and of nations heard .
He cheer'd my sorrows, and, for sums of
gold,
The bloodless carcass of my Hector sold;
Pitied the woes a parent underwent,
And sent me back in safety from his tent.'
"This said, his feeble hand a javelin
threw,
Which, flutt'ring, seem'd to loiter as it
flew:
Just, and but barely, to the mark it held,
And faintly tinkled on the brazen shield.
"Then Pyrrhus thus: ' Go thou from me
to fate,
And to my father my foul deeds relate.
Now die!' With that he dragg'd the
trembling sire,
Slidd'ring thro' clotter'd blood and holy
mire,
(The mingled paste his murder'd son had
made,)
Haul'd from beneath the violated shade,
And on the sacred pile the royal victim
laid.
His right hand held his bloody fauchion
bare,
His left he twisted in his hoary hair ;
Then, with a speeding thrust, his heart he
found:
The lukewarm blood came rushing thro'
the wound,
And sanguine streams distain'd the sacred
grouvid.
Thus Priam fell, and shar'd one common
fate
With Troy in ashes, and his ruin'd state:
He, who the scepter of all Asia sway'd,
Whom monarchs like domestic slaves
obey'd.
On the bleak shore now lies th' abandon'd
king,
A headless carcass, and a nameless thing.
"Then, not before, I felt my cruddleJ
blood
Congeal with fear, my hair with horror
stood:
My father's image fill'd my pious mind,
Lest equal years might equal fortune find.
Again I thought on my forsaken wife,
And trembled for my son's abandon'd life.
I look'd about, but found myself alone,
Deserted at my need! My friends were
gone.
Some spent with toil, some with despair
oppress'd,
Leap'd headlong from the heights; the
flames consum'd the rest.
Thus, wand'ring in my way, without a
guide,
The graceless Helen hi the porch I spied
Of Vesta's temple; there she lurk'd alone;
Muffled she sate, and, what she could, un-
known:
But, by the flames that cast their blaze
around,
That common bane of Greece and Troy I
found.
For Ilium burnt, she dreads the Trojan
sword;
More dreads the vengeance of her injur'd
lord;
Ev'n by those gods who refug'd her ab-
horr'd.
Trembling with rage, the strumpet I
regard,
Resolv'd to give her guilt the due reward :
'Shall she triumphant sail before the
wind,
And leave in flames unhappy Troy be-
hind?
Shall she her kingdom and her friends
review,
In state attended with a captive crew,
While unreveng'd the good old Priam
falls,
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
And Grecian fires consume the Trojan
walls?
For this the Phrygian fields and Xanthian
flood
Were swell'd with bodies, and were drunk
with blood?
'T is true, a soldier can small honor gain,
And boast no conquest, from a woman
slain :
Yet shall the fact not pass without ap-
plause,
Of vengeance taken in so just a cause;
The punish'd crime shall set my soul at
ease,
And murm'ring manes of my friends
appease.'
Thus while I rave, a gleam of pleasing
light
Spread o'er the place; and, shining heav'nly
bright,
My mother stood reveal'd before my sight.
Never so radiant did her eyes appear;
Not her own star confess'd a light so clear:
Great in her charms, as when on gods
above
She looks, and breathes herself into their
love.
She held my hand, the destin'd blow to
break;
Then from her rosy lips began to speak:
'My son, from whence this madness, this
neglect
Of my commands, and those whom I pro-
tect?
Why this unmanly rage? Recall to mind
Whom you forsake, what pledges leave
behind.
Look if your helpless father yet survive,
Or if Ascanius or Creiisa live.
Around your house the greedy Grecians
err;
And these had perish'd in the nightly war,
But for my presence and protecting care.
Not Helen's face, nor Paris, was in fault;
But by the gods was this destruction
brought.
Now cast your eyes around, while I dis-
solve
The mists and films that mortal eyes in-
volve,
Purge from your sight the dross, and make
you see
The shape of each avenging deity.
Enlighten'd thus, my just commands ful-
fil,
Nor fear obedience to your mother's will.
Where yon disorder'd heap of ruin lies,
Stones rent from stones; where clouds of
dust arise —
Amid that smother Neptune holds his
place,
Below the wall's foundation drives his
mace,
And heaves the building from the solid base.
Look where, in arms, imperial Juno stands
Full in the Scaean gate, with loud com-
mands,
Urging on shore the tardy Grecian bands.
See! Pallas, of her snaky buckler proud,
Bestrides the tow'r, refulgent thro' the
cloud:
See! Jove new courage to the foe supplies,
And arms against the town the partial
deities.
Haste hence, my son; this fruitless labor
end:
Haste, where your trembling spouse and
sire attend:
Haste; and a mother's care your passage
shall befriend.'
She said, and swiftly vanish'd from my
sight,
Obscure in clouds and gloomy shades of
night.
I look'd, I listen'd; dreadful sounds I hear;
And the dire forms of hostile gods appear.
Troy sunk in flames I saw (nor could pre-
vent),
And Ilium from its old foundations rent;
Rent like a mountain ash, which dar'd the
winds,
And stood the sturdy strokes of lab 'ring
hinds.
About the roots the cruel ax resounds;
The stumps are pierc'd with oft-repeated
wounds:
The war is felt on high; the nodding crown
Now threats a fall, and throws the leafy
honors down.
To their united force it yields, tho' late,
And mourns with mortal groans th' ap-
proaching fate:
The roots no more their upper load sus-
tain;
EPIC AND ROMANCE
39
But down she falls, and spreads a ruin
thro' the plain.
"Descending thence, I scape thro' foes
and fire:
Before the goddess, foes and flames retire.
Arriv'd at home, he, for whose only sake,
Or most for his, such toils I undertake,
The good Anchises, whom, by timely
flight,
I purpos'd to secure on Ida's height,
Refus'd the journey, resolute to die
And add his fun'rals to the fate of Troy,
Rather than exile and old age sustain.
' Go you, whose blood runs warm in ev'ry
vein.
Had Heav'n decreed that I should life en-
joy*
Heav'n had decreed to save unhappy Troy.
'T is, sure, enough, if not too much, for
one,
Twice to have seen our Ilium overthrown.
Make haste to save the poor remaining
crew,
And give this useless corpse a long adieu.
These weak old hands suffice to stop my
breath;
At least the pitying foes will aid my
death,
To take my spoils, and leave my body
bare:
As for my sepulcher, let Heav'n take care.
'T is long since I, for my celestial wife
Loath'd by the gods, have dragg'd a ling-
'ring life;
Since ev'ry hour and moment I expire,
Blasted from heav'n by Jove's avenging
fire.'
This oft repeated, he stood fix'd to die:
Myself, my wife, my son, my family,
Intreat, pray, beg, and raise a doleful cry —
'What, will he still persist, on death re-
solve,
And in his ruin all his house involve!'
He still persists his reasons to maintain;
Our pray'rs, our tears, our loud laments,
are vain.
"Urg'd by despair, again I go to try
The fate of arms, resolv'd in fight to die:
'What hope remains, but what my death
must give?
Can I, without so dear a father, live?
You term it prudence, what I baseness call:
Could such a word from such a parent
fall?
If Fortune please, and so the gods or-
dain,
That nothing should of ruin'd Troy re-
main,
And you conspire with Fortune to be slain,
The way to death is wide, th' approaches
near:
For soon relentless Pyrrhus will appear,
Reeking with Priam's blood — the wretch
who slew
The son (inhuman) in the father's view,
And then the sire himself to the dire altar
drew.
0 goddess mother, give me back to Fate;
Your gift was undesir'd, and came too late !
Did you, for this, unhappy me convey
Thro' foes and fires, to see my house a
prey?
Shall I my father, wife, and son behold,
Welt'ring in blood, each other's arms in-
fold?
Haste ! gird my sword, tho' spent and over-
come:
'T is the last summons to receive our doom.
1 hear thee, Fate; and I obey thy call!
Not unreveng'd the foe shall see my fall.
Restore me to the yet unfinish'd fight:
My death is wanting to conclude the
night.'
Arm'd once again, my glitt'ring sword I
wield,
While th' other hand sustains my weighty
shield,
And forth I rush to seek th' abandon'd
field.
I went; but sad Creiisa stopp'd my way,
And cross the threshold in my passage lay,
Embrac'd my knees, and, when I would
have gone,
Shew'd me my feeble sire and tender son:
' If death be your design, at least,' said she,
'Take us along to share your destiny.
If any farther hopes in arms remain,
This place, these pledges of your love,
maintain.
To whom do you expose your father's life,
Your son's, and mine, your now forgotten
wife!'
While thus she fills the house with clam'r-
ous cries.
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Our hearing is diverted by our eyes:
For, while I held my son, in the short space
Betwixt our kisses and our last embrace;
Strange to relate, from young lulus' head
A lambent flame arose, which gently
spread
Around his brows, and on his temples fed.
Amaz'd, with running water we prepared
To quench the sacred fire, and slake his
hair;
But old Anchises, vers'd in omens, rear'd
His hands to heav'n, and this request pre-
ferr'd:
' If any vows, almighty Jove, can bend
Thy will; if piety can pray'rs commend,
Confirm the glad presage which thou art
pleas'd to send.'
Scarce had he said, when, on our left, we
hear
A peal of rattling thunder roll in air:
There shot a streaming lamp along the
sky,
Which on the winged lightning seem'd to
fly;
From o'er the roof the blaze began to
move,
And, trailing, vanish'd hi th' Idaean grove.
It swept a path in heav'n, and shone a
guide,
Then in a steaming stench of sulphur died.
"The good old man with suppliant
hands implor'd
The gods' protection, and their star ador'd.
'Now, now,' said he, 'my son, no more de-
lay!
I yield, I follow where Heav'n shews the
way.
Keep, O my country gods, our dwelling
place,
And guard this relic of the Trojan race,
This tender child! These omens are your
own,
And you can yet restore the ruin'd town.
At least accomplish what your signs fore-
show:
I stand resign'd, and am prepar'd to go.'
"He said. The crackling flames appear
on high,
And driving sparkles dance along the sky.
With Vulcan's rage the rising winds con-
spire,
And near our palace roll the flood of fire.
'Haste, my dear father ('t is no time to
wait),
And load my shoulders with a willing
freight.
Whate'er befalls, your life shall be my
care;
One death, or one deliv'rance, we will
share.
My hand shall lead our little son; and you,
My faithful consort, shall our steps pursue.
Next, you, my servants, heed my strict
commands :
Without the walls a ruin'd temple stands,
To Ceres hallow'd once; a cypress nigh
Shoots up her venerable head on high,
By long religion kept; there bend your
feet,
And in divided parties let us meet.
Our country gods, the relics, and the
bands,
Hold you, my father, in your guiltless
hands:
In me 't is impious holy things to bear,
Red as I am with slaughter, new from wa*,
Till in some living stream I cleanse t^e
guilt
Of dire debate, and blood in battle spilt.'
Thus, ord'ring all that prudence could pro-
vide,
I clothe my shoulders with a lion's hide
And yellow spoils; then, on my bending
back,
The welcome load of my dear father take;
While on my better hand Ascanius hung,
And with unequal paces tripp'd along.
Creiisa kept behind; by choice we stray
Thro' ev'ry dark and ev'ry devious way.
I, who so bold and dauntless, just before,
The Grecian darts and shock of lances
bore,
At ev'ry shadow now am seiz'd with fear,
Not for myself, but for the charge I bear;
Till, near the ruin'd gate arriv'd at last,
Secure, and deeming all the danger past,
A frightful noise of trampling feet we hear.
My father, looking thro' the shades, with
fear,
Cried out: 'Haste, haste, my son, the foes
are nigh;
Their swords and shining armor I descry.'
Some hostile god, for some unknown of-
fense,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Had sure bereft my mind of better sense;
For, while thro' winding ways I took my
flight,
And sought the shelter of the gloomy
night,
Alas! I lost Creiisa: hard to tell
If by her fatal destiny she fell,
Or weary sate, or wander 'd with affright;
But she was lost for ever to my sight.
I knew not, or reflected, till I meet
My friends, at Ceres' now deserted seat.
We met: not one was wanting; only she
Deceiv'd her friends, her son, and wretched
me.
"What mad expressions did my tongue
refuse!
Whom did I not, of gods or men, accuse!
This was the fatal blow, that pain'd me
more
Than all I felt from ruin'd Troy before.
Stung with my loss, and raving with de-
spair,
Abandoning my now forgotten care,
Of counsel, comfort, and of hope bereft,
My sire, my son, my country gods I left.
In shining armor once again I sheathe
My limbs, not feeling wounds, nor fearing
death.
Then headlong to the burning walls I run,
And seek the danger I was forc'd to shun.
I tread my former tracks; thro' night ex-
plore
Each passage, ev'ry street I cross'd before.
All things were full of horror and affright,
And dreadful ev'n the silence of the night.
Then to my father's house I make repair,
With some small glimpse of hope to find
her there.
Instead of her, the cruel Greeks I met;
The house was fill'd with foes, with flames
beset.
Driv'n on the wings of winds, whole sheets
of fire,
Thro' air transported, to the roofs aspire.
From thence to Priam's palace I resort,
And search the citadel and desert court.
Then, unobserv'd, I pass by Juno's church:
A guard of Grecians had possess'd the
porch;
There Phoenix and Ulysses watch the
prey,
And thither all the wealth of Troy convey:
The spoils which they from ransack'd
houses brought,
And golden bowls from burning altars
caught,
The tables of the gods, the purple vests,
The people's treasure, and the pomp of
priests.
A rank of wretched youths, with pinion'd
hands,
And captive matrons, in long order stands .
Then, with ungovern'd madness, I pro-
claim,
Thro' all the silent street, Creiisa's name:
Creiisa still I call; at length she hears,
And sudden thro' the shades of night ap-
pears—
Appears, no more Creiisa, nor my wife,
But a pale specter, larger than the life.
Aghast, astonish'd, and struck dumb with
fear,
I stood; like bristles rose my stiff en'd hair.
Then thus the ghost began to soothe my
grief:
'Nor tears, nor cries, can give the dead
relief.
Desist, my much-lov'd lord, t' indulge your
pain;
You bear no more than what the gods
ordain.
My fates permit me not from hence to fly;
Nor he, the great controller of the sky.
Long wand'ring ways for you the pow'rs
decree;
On land hard labors, and a length of sea.
Then, after many painful years are past,
On Latium's happy shore you shall be cast,
Where gentle Tiber from his bed beholds
The flow'ry meadows, and the feeding
folds.
There end your toils; and there your fates
provide
A quiet kingdom, and a royal bride:
There fortune shall the Trojan line restore,
And you for lost Creiisa weep no more.
Fear not that I shall watch, with servile
shame,
Th' imperious looks of some proud Grecian
dame;
Or, stooping to the victor's lust, disgrace
My goddess mother, or my royal race.
And now, farewell! The parent of the
gods
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Restrains my fleeting soul in her abodes:
I trust our common issue to your care.'
She said, and gliding pass'd unseen in
air.
I strove to speak: but horror tied my
tongue;
And thrice about her neck my arms I flung,
And, thrice deceiv'd, on vain embraces
hung.
Light as an empty dream at break of day,
Or as a blast of wind, she rush'd away.
"Thus having pass'd the night in fruit-
less pain,
I to my longing friends return again,
Amaz'd th' augmented number to behold,
Of men and matrons mix'd, of young and
old;
A wretched exiPd crew together brought,
With arms appointed, and with treasure
fraught,
Resolv'd, and willing, under my command,
To run all hazards both of sea and land.
The Morn began, from Ida, to display
Her rosy cheeks; and Phosphor led the
day:
Before the gates the Greci'ans took their
post,
And all pretense of late relief was lost.
I yield to Fate, unwillingly retire,
And, loaded, up the hill convey my sire."
DANTE ALIGHIERI
Dante Alighieri is usually regarded as one of the greatest poets who have ever written in any language
or at any time within the knowledge of civilized man. In poetic power, uniformity of excellence, and
extent of fame only Shakespeare and Homer equal him, and nobody is credited with being his superior.
He was born in Florence, Italy, in 1265, and he died in Ravenna in 1321. He was a member of a family
of some slight prominence, and this, together with his marriage to a woman who had influential con-
nections, and his native ability and reputation as a poet, enabled him to take a conspicuous part in the
politics of Florence and to rise to be one of its chief magistrates. He was, however, falsely accused of
corruption in office, and he spent the last nineteen years of his life as an exile with a price on his head.
Partly as a result of his burning indignation at the treachery and baseness of the politicians who had
traduced him and, in his opinion, were ruining Italy and undermining civilization, and partly because of
his profoundly religious nature, he produced during the wanderings imposed by his exile the work on
which his fame as a world poet largely depends. He called it Dante Alighieri's "Comedy," because it
had a happy ending; but admiring posterity has added the term "Divine" to his title, to indicate its
superlative excellence.
The "Divine Comedy" is a very complex work. It is the story of a journey made by Dante, while
he was still alive, through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. The opportunity to make this journey in or-
der that he might learn the nature of sin and avoid it, was secured for Dante by the intervention of a
certain Beatrice who had known him on earth before her death and ascension to Heaven. She secured
divine permission to have the spirit of Virgil lead him through Hell and Purgatory, and she herself
conducted him through Paradise.
Hell, according to Dante, is a hollow cone with its apex in the centre of the earth, and nine circles
around its sides in which the damned suffer according to the degree of their guilt. Near the top are
the shiners who have yielded to natural impulses: lust, gluttony, avarice, anger. Then come sins by
which the human intellect is perverted and made an instrument of evil, that is, voluntary sins, as the
others are more or less involuntary. The first of these have violence as their foundation, and include :
heresy, tyranny, self-destruction, and insensate covetousness. Finally, in the two lowest circles are the
basest of all sins, those of which fraud and malice are the instigation, and cunning and treachery the means
of accomplishment. Such sinners are: seducers, flatterers, simonists, diviners, grafters, hypocrites,
thieves, false counsellors, sowers of dissension, and forgers. In the lowest circle of all are murderers,
first those who have betrayed their country, then those who have killed their friends or hosts, and
finally those who have murdered their benefactors.
Purgatory is a mountain in the Southern Hemisphere, with its summit directly opposite Jerusalem
and its base washed by an ocean that covers the whole southern half of the earth. Around the sides
of this mountain run seven terraces in which repentant sinners are purged of the Seven Deadly Sins:
Pride, Envy, Anger, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, and Lust. On the top of the mountain is the Earthly
Paradise, in which beneficent worldly activity is symbolically depicted.
Paradise is a series of ten circular heavens, each of which revolves around the earth as its center,
for Dante followed the Ptolomaic system of astronomy, which regarded the sun as a planet moving around
the earth. These heavens are: those of the Moon, Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn,
the Fixed Stars, the Primum Mobile or revolving sphere which imparts motion to all the others within
it, and finally, the spaceless and motionless Empyrean in which God dwells.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
43
THE INFERNO
The selection here given is from the "Inferno," and it deals with the increasing difficulty and danger
Dante and Virgil encounter as they go deeper and deeper into Hell. In order to appreciate Dante at all
intelligently, it is necessary to recognize that the chief significance of his work is figurative. He is gen-
erally thought of as remarkable for the power of imagination he displays by which he makes the unreal
seem real, and while he does display great power and skill in this respect, his main success lies in his
having made his poem an analysis of human life and an exhaustive description of moral experiences.
His poem tells us that the human being whose mind is impelled by lust, torn by anger, impeded by weak-
ness of character, or distorted by malice, is in Hell just as effectively as the sinners he so graphically
and convincingly describes; that the person who has suffered for his sins and is trying to overcome
them has both anguish and joy like the inmates of his Purgatory; and that those who have attained to
peace of mind and faith in the goodness and ultimate justness of the Creator's plans are in Heaven,
enjoying delights no less sweet than those he pictures.
The allegory of the selection here translated is not easy to make clear without considerable explana-
tion. Virgil typifies reason, and reason enables us to contemplate sin without becoming its victim.
Reason also abhors anger and violence, hence Virgil's treatment of Filippo Argenti. It, however, takes
something more than reason to enable a person to come closely enough in contact with sin to understand
it and yet not become addicted to it. This something is a good fortune so unusual as to seem the direct
intervention of Heaven, and it is this that the angel that opens the City of Dis typifies. Medusa is
despair, for it is impossible to perceive the full wickedness of the human heart without being frozen into
hopelessness; reason therefore bids us avert our gaze from wanton evil, lest we despair. This seems to
be the main teaching that is "hidden behind the curtain of the verses strange," about which, however,
endless volumes have been written.
Translations of Dante are very numerous, but none as yet has been very successful. The usual
criticism is that they do not present Dante so much as they do his translator, and this translation there-
fore attempts to be as literal as is consistent with smoothness, for Dante is never rough from necessity,
though he often is from choice. This translation is also in verse, because nobody can get an idea of a
poem in verse by reading it in prose. It does not, however, contain any rhyme words, and each line
corresponds to the line it renders in the original, except for very slight occasional variations. It is hoped
in this way that two things at least will be conveyed by the translation: first, Dante's thought in approxi-
mately the order and language in which he expressed it, and second, the fact that that thought is con-
veyed in metrical language and in rhyme.
[This note and the translation have been made by Sidney A. Gunn, a member of the Department of
English and Curator of the United States Naval Academy.]
CANTO VIII
CONTINUING, I say that long before
To that high tower's foot we had drawn
nigh,
Our eyes went carefully its summit o'er;
Because two flames placed there we could
descry,
And from so far another's answer flit
That hardly could we catch it with the
eye.
I, turning to the ocean of all wit,
Said: "What says this? and what has
just replied
That other flame? and who does it trans-
mit?"
And he to me: "Above the filthy tide
Already thou can'st see him they attend,
Unless the marsh's smoke it from thee
hide."
Cord never yet did arrow from it send
Which made its way so quickly through
the ah",
As I beheld a tiny shallop wend
Its way and towards us o'er the waters
fare
Which but a single oarsman did contain
Who cried: "Now cruel spirit, art thou
there?"
"O Phlegyas, Phlegyas, thou dost cry in
vain
This time," exclaimed to him thereat
my sage.
"Thou'lt have us but while o'er the
swamp we're ta'en."
As one who hears about a great outrage
Against himself, and then doth it resent,
So acted Phlegyas in his swollen rage.
Then down into the bark my master went,
And after him he made me enter too;
And I alone had weight 'neath which it
bent.
44
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
As quickly as the boat received us two,
It started forth and with its ancient
prow
Cut deeper far than it was wont to do.
While we were passing o'er the stagnant
slough,
A shade, that full of slime rose from the
deep,
Cried: "Soul here ere thy time, pray
who art thou? "
"Although I come, the place shall not me
keep,"
I said, "but who art thou thus foul?"
and he:
"Thou seest I am one of those who
weep."
And I to him: "May tears and mourning
be,
Accursed spirit, evermore thy share,
For though so foul thou yet art known
to me."
Then both his hands towards the boat he
bare,
But him my watchful guide at once re-
pressed,
And said: " Unto the other dogs repair."
Then me with both his arms he to him
pressed,
And kissing me: "Disdainful soul," he
said,
" May she by whom thou wert conceived
be blest.
A life of brutal arrogance he led;
His name no goodness into honor brings,
And this such fury in his shade has bred.
How many who themselves think mighty
kings
Shall here be as the swine are in the
mire,
About whose name the vilest memory
clings."
And I: "My master, much do I desire
To see him plunged within this filthy
swill,
Before we from the gloomy lake retire."
And he to me: " Before the shore there will
Be visible, thou shalt be satisfied;
For such a wish 'tis proper to fulfil."
Soon after that I saw to him applied
Such torments by the muddy people
there,
That for it since I God have glorified.
"At Filippo Argenti," everywhere
They cried, and that shade Florentine
irate
Began himself with his own teeth to tear.
We left, and I'll no more of him relate.
But now a wailing struck upon my ear
Which made me open-eyed, intent,
await.
My master said: "My son, now draweth
near
That city which the name of Dis ac-
quires,
With all its crowds, and citizens aus-
tere."
"Master," said I, "already mosques and
spires
Yonder within its walls seem red to be,
As if they all were issuing from fires."
"The fire eternal," he said unto me,
"Which kindles them within, red makes
them gleam
Within this lower hell, as thou can'st
see."
Fosses we entered now of depth extreme,
Which moat all round that city desolate,
Whose walls to me did made of iron
seem.
But not until we made a circuit great
Came we to where the boatman loudly
cried:
"Now get ye forth, for yonder is the
gate."
Upon the walls I thousands there descried
Whom heaven rained down, who thus
in anger spoke:
"Who is he, who, although he has not
died,
Goes thus throughout the kingdom of dead
folk?"
My master wise thereat a signal made
That he would secret speech with them
invoke.
Then, with their mighty scorn somewhat
allayed,
They said: "Come thou alone, but send
him back
Who comes within this realm so un-
afraid.
Alone let him retrace that reckless track,
If so he can, for thou shalt here remain
Who him hath guided through this
region black."
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Think, reader, whether fear did o'er me
reign,
When I heard speak like this that cursed
corps;
For here I thought ne'er to return again!
"0 guide beloved who hast seven times
and more
Secure me rendered and me safely won
From perils that arose to whelm me o'er,
Leave me not here," I said, " thus all un-
done,
And if the passage further is denied,
Let us retrace at once the path begun."
Then said that lord who unto me was
guide :
"Fear not that we this passage must
forego;
No one can take what one so great sup-
plied.
But wait me here, and feed they spirits
low
With hopes of better fortunes that im-
pend,
For thee I leave not in the world below."
Thus then went forth and left me to
attend,
My father kind, and I remained in fear
While yes and no did in my head con-
tend.
The words he offered them I could not
hear,
But long they did not there with him
await ;
For, rushing back again in mad career,
Our adversaries quickly shut the gate
Upon my leader, who outside forlorn
Came back to me with slow and solemn
gait.
His eyes were on the ground; his brows
were shorn
Of boldness, and he murmured, with a
sigh,
"Who shuts me from the house where
spirits mourn?"
And then to me: "Though I in anger cry,
Do thou not fear, The test I will sustain,
Whatever hindrance they within may
try.
Not new to them is this defiance vain.
Once at a gate less secret they it tried;
One that does yet without a bar remain.
O'er it the dead inscription thou descried.
And now this side of it descends the
slope,
Passing the circles through without a
guide,
One who for us the city there shall ope."
CANTO DC
THAT color fear my countenance had
stained,
When I beheld my leader turning back,
In him more quickly his new tint re-
strained.
He stopped, as if to listen, in the track;
For little was the distance one could see
Through fog so heavy and through air so
black.
"Yet in the fight we must win victory,"
He said; "if not . . . when guar-
anteed such aid.
Till some one comes how long it seems
tome!"
I well perceived how he a cover made
For his beginning with what last he said,
Which different sense from his first
words conveyed.
But none the less his language made me
dread,
Because, perhaps in what he broke off so,
A meaning worse than his intent I read.
"Within this dreary shell thus far below,
Comes ever spirit of the first degree,
Whose only pain is hope cut off to
know?"
Thus questioned I, and: "Rarely," an-
swered he,
" Is it that any one of us goes through
This region that is now traversed by me.
Down once before was I this way, 'tis true,
Here conjured by insensate Erichtho,
Who spirits back into their bodies drew.
Not long was I of flesh denuded so,
When she made me to pass within that
wall
To draw a shade from Judas' ring below.
That is the lowest, blackest spot of all,
And farthest from the Heaven that
round all flies.
I know the way, therefore thy faith re-
call.
That marsh from which the putrid smells
arise
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
All round this doleful city here is spread,
Which entrance, lacking wrath, to us
denies."
And more he spoke, but from my mind it
fled,
Because my eyes entirely me drew
Towards the lofty tower of summit red,
Where all at once had risen up to view
Three hellish furies all besmeared with
gore,
Who female members had and actions
too.
The greenest hydras they as girdles wore,
And tiny snakes with horns had they
for hair,
Which matted was their cruel brows
before.
And he, that they were handmaids well
aware
Of her who of eternal plaints is queen,
Said: "Look thou on the fell Erynnis
there!
Megaera is upon the left hand seen;
Alecto on the right wails, of the rest;
Tesiphone is she who is between."
They with their nails all madly tore the
breast,
And beat themselves, and uttered
shrieks so high
That near the poet I in terror pressed.
"Bring here Medusa him to petrify,"
They all cried out, directing down their
sight;
"Theseus' attack we passed too lightly
by."
"Turn thou around and close thy eyelids
tight,
For if the Gorgon comes and thou her
see,
There will be no returning to the light."
Thus spoke my master, and himself then
he
Turned me around, nor left me to ar-
range,
But with his hands o'er mine blindfolded
me.
O ye whose minds corruption does not
change,
Observe the teaching which itself doth
hide
Beneath the curtain of these verses
strange!
And now there came across the turbid tide
A crashing that aroused a wild affray
Which caused the shore to quake on
either side.
'Twas just as when a wind-storm makes
its way,
Impetuous from heats' adversity,
Which strikes the forest, and without a
stay,
The branches strips, breaks down, and
teareth free;
With dust before it, on it proudly flies
And makes the wild beasts and the
shepherds flee.
"Direct thy sight," he said, and loosed my
eyes,
"So that the ancient foam thy vision
know,
There yonder where the acrid vapors
rise!"
Just as the frogs before their serpent foe
Rush through the water in disrupted
shoals,
Till on the ground each one is squatting
low,
So I saw many thousand ruined souls
Fleeing from one who at the passage
there
Was crossing o'er the Styx with unwet
soles.
Back from his face he thrust the heavy air,
His left hand pushing forward as he
went,
And weary seemed he solely from this
care.
Well I perceived that he from Heaven was
sent,
And turned to Virgil, who by signs made
plain
That I be still and stand before him
bent.
Ah, how intense to me seemed his disdain !
He came unto the gate, and with a
wand
He opened it, for naught did him re-
strain.
"O heavenly outcasts, O despised band,"
He then began upon the awful sill,
"What you impells to this defiant stand?
Wherefore do you rebel against the will
Which nothing from its object e'er
abates,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
47
And which so often has increased your
ill?
What profits it to butt against the fates?
Your Cerberus for that, you well have
learned,
The hair still on his throat and chin
awaits."
And then back by the filthy path he
turned,
Nor spoke to us, but all the air he bore
Of one whom other cares impelled and
burned
Than those of them then standing him
before.
Then towards the city we our steps dis-
posed,
Secure after the sacred words once more,
And entered there with no one who op-
posed.
But I who wished exceedingly to see
The state a fortress such as that en-
closed,
When I was in looked round me thoroughly
And saw a mighty plain stretch all
around,
With sorrow filled and wicked agony.
Just as at Aries the Rhone is stagnant
found,
And as at Pola to Quarnaro near,
Where Italy's confines are washed and
bound,
The tombs uneven make the plain appear;
So here on every side it was the same,
Excepting that the mode was more
severe :
For 'mid the tombs were scattered tongues
of flame
By which they were with heat so fully
seared
That hotter iron doth no craft e'er
claim.
They all their covers open had upreared,
And from them did such lamentations
rise
That sad and wounded they indeed ap-
peared.
And I: "My Master, what folk is it lies
Entombed within these chests, who in
this way
Themselves make evident by mournful
sighs?"
And he to me: "Arch heretics are they
With followers of every sect, and more
Than thou believest do these tombs
down weigh.
In this place like with like is covered o'er,
And more and less hot are the monu-
ments."
Then we our steps towards the right
hand bore
Between the torments and high battle-
ments.
JOHN MILTON (1608-1674)
Milton, after Shakespeare the chief glory of English literature, is one of the world's greatest poets.
His chief work, "Paradise Lost," though not strictly true to the epic type— since it concerns no national
hero — is the great English epic that stands in our literature as Homer's "Eiad" and "Odyssey" stand in
Greek, and Virgil's "/Eneid" in Latin. It is the story of the temptation and fall of man; the twelfth and
last book concludes with the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. It was written
when the poet was poor, past middle life, and blind, in order, as he himself tells us, to
assert Eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.
PARADISE LOST
BOOK I
ARGUMENT
THIS First Book proposes, first in brief, the whole
subject, — Man's disobedience, and the loss
thereupon of Paradise, wherein he was placed :
then touches the prime cause of his fall, — the
serpent, or rather Satan in the serpent; who,
revolting from God, and drawing to his side
many legions of angels, was, by the command
of God, driven out of heaven, with all his
crew, into the great deep. Which action
passed over, the poem hastens into the midst
of things, presenting Satan, with his angels,
now fallen into hell, described here, not in
the center (for heaven and earth may be sup-
posed as yet not made, certainly not yet ac-
cursed), but in a place of utter darkness, fit-
liest called Chaos: here Satan with his angels,
lying on the burning lake, thunderstruck and
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
astonished, after a certain space recovers, as
from confusion, calls up him who next in order
and dignity lay by him. They confer of their
miserable fall; Satan awakens all his legions,
who lay till then in the same manner con-
founded. They rise; their numbers; array of
battle; their chief leaders named, according to
the idols known afterwards in Canaan and the
countries adjoining. To these Satan directs
his speech, comforts them with hope yet of re-
gaining heaven, but tells them lastly of a new
world and new kind of creature to be created,
according to an ancient prophecy, or report, in
heaven — for, that the angels were long before
this visible creation, was the opinion of many
ancient fathers. To find out the truth of this
prophecy, and what to determine thereon, he
refers to a full council. What his associates
thence attempt. Pandemonium, the palace
of Satan, rises, suddenly built out of the deep:
the infernal peers there sit in council.
OF MAN'S first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our
woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret
top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, did'st inspire
That shepherd, who first taught the chosen
seed,
In the beginning how the heavens and
earth
Rose out of chaos: or, if Sion hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that
flowed
Fast by the oracle of God, I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in prose or rime.
And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all temples the upright heart and
pure,
Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou from
the first
Wast present, and, with mighty wings out-
spread,
Dove-like, sat'st brooding on the vast
abyss,
And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is
dark,
Illumine; what is low, raise and support;
That to the height of this great argument
I may assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.
Say first — for heaven hides nothing from
thy view,
Nor the deep tract of hell — say first, what
cause
Moved our grand Parents, in that happy
state,
Favored of Heaven so highly, to fall off
From their Creator, and transgress his will
For one restraint, lords of the world
besides.
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?
The infernal Serpent; he it was, whose
guile,t
Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived
The mother of mankind; what time his
pride
Had cast him out from heaven, with all his
host
Of rebel angels; by whose aid, aspiring
To set himself in glory above his peers,
He trusted to have equaled the Most
High,
If he opposed; and, with ambitious aim
Against the throne and monarchy of God,
Raised impious war in heaven, and battle
proud,
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty
Power
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal
sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition; there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.
Nine times the space that measures day
and night
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,
Confounded, though immortal. But his
doom
Reserved him to more wrath; for now the
thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pahi
Torments him; round he throws his baleful
eyes,
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,
Mixed with obdurate pride, and steadfast
hate.
At once, as far as angels' ken, he views
The dismal situation waste and wild.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace, flamed; yet from
those flames
No light ; but rather darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where
peace
And rest can never dwell; hope never
comes
That comes to all ; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.
Such place eternal justice had prepared
For those rebellious; here their prison or-
dained
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far removed from God and light of
heaven,
As from the center thrice to the utmost
pole.
O, how unlike the place from whence they
feU!
There the companions of his fall, o'er-
whelmed
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous
fire,
He soon discerns; and weltering by his
side
C/ne next himself in power, and next in
crime,
Long after known in Palestine, and named
Beelzebub. To whom the arch-enemy.
And thence in heaven called Satan, with
bold words
Breaking the horrid silence, thus began: —
"If thou beest he— but O, how fall'n!
how changed
From him who, in the happy realms of
light,
Clothed with transcendent brightness,
didst outshine
Myriads, though bright! If he, whom
mutual league,
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the glorious enterprise,
Joined with me once, now misery hath
joined
In equal ruin; into what pit thou seest
From what height fall'n, so much the
stronger proved
He with his thunder: and till then who
knew
The force of those dire arms? Yet not for
those,
Nor what the potent victor in his rage
Can else inflict, do I repent or change,
Though changed hi outward luster, that
fixed mind,
And high disdain from sense of injured
merit,
That with the Mightiest raised me to
contend,
And to the fierce contention brought along
Innumerable force of spirits armed,
That durst dislike his reign, and, me pre-
ferring
His utmost power with adverse power op-
posed
In dubious battle on the plains of heaven,
And shook his throne. What though the
field be lost?
All is not lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield,
And what is else not to be overcome;
That glory never shah1 his wrath or might
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and deify his power
Who from the terror of this arm so late
Doubted his empire — that were low in-
deed,
That were an ignominy, and shame be-
neath
This downfall; since, by fate, the strength
of gods,
And this empyreal substance, cannot fail:
Since, through experience of this great
event,
In arms not worse, in foresight much ad-
vanced,
We may with more successful hope resolve
To wage by force or guile eternal war,
Irreconcilable to our grand foe,
Who now triumphs, and, in the excess of
joy
Sole reigning, holds the tyrannyof heaven."
So spake the apostate angel, though in
pain,
Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep de-
spair
And him thus answered soon his bold com-
peer:—
"O prince, O chief of many-throned
jaowers,.
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
That led the embattled seraphim to war
Under thy conduct, and in dreadful deeds
Fearless, endangered heaven's perpetual
King,
And put to proof his high supremacy,
Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or
fate;
Too well I see, and rue the dire event,
That with sad overthrow, and foul defeat,
Hath lost us heaven, and all this mighty
host
In horrible destruction laid thus low,
As far as gods and heavenly essences
Can perish : for the mind and spirit remain
Invincible, and vigor soon returns,
Though all our glory extinct, and happy
state
Here swallowed up in endless misery.
But what if he our Conqueror (whom I
now
Of force believe Almighty, since no less
Than such could have o'erpowered such
force as ours)
Have left us this our spirit and strength
entire.
Strongly to suffer and support our pains,
That we may so suffice his vengeful ire,
Or do him mightier service as his thralls
By right of war, whate'er his business be,
Here in the heart of hell to work in fire,
Or do his errands, in the gloomy deep?
What can it then avail, though yet we
feel
Strength undiminished, or eternal being
To undergo eternal punishment?"
Whereto with speedy words the arch-
fiend replied: —
" Fallen cherub, to be weak is miserable,
Doing or suffering; but of this be sure,
To do aught good never will be our task,
But ever to do ill our sole delight,
As being the contrary to his high will
Whom we resist. If then his providence
Out of our evil seek to bring forth good,
Our labor must be to pervert that end,
And out of good still to find means of evil,
Which of ttimes may succeed, so as perhaps
Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb
His inmost counsels from their destined
aim.
But see, the angry Victor hath recalled
His ministers of vengeance and pursuit
Back to the gates of heaven; the sulphur-
ous hail,
Shot after us in storm, o'erblown, hath laid
The fiery surge, that from the precipice
Of heaven received us falling; and the
thunder,
Winged with red lightning and impetuous
rage,
Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases
now
To bellow through the vast and boundless
deep.
Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn
Or satiate fury yield it from our foe.
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and
wild,
The seat of desolation, void of light,
Save what the glimmering of these livid
flames
Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us
tend
From off the tossing of these fiery waves;
There rest, if any rest can harbor there;
And, re-assembling our afflicted powers,
Consult how we may henceforth most of-
fend
Our enemy; our own loss how repair;
How overcome this dire calamity;
What reinforcement we may gain from
hope;
If not, what resolution from despair."
Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate,
With head uplif t above the wave, and eyes
That sparkling blazed; his other parts be-
sides
Prone on the flood, extended long and
large,
Lay floating many a rood; in bulk as huge
As whom the fables name of monstrous
size,
Titanian, or Earth-born, that warred on
Jove;
Briareos or Typhon, whom the den
By ancient Tarsus held; or that sea-beast
Leviathan, which God of all his works
Created hugest that swim the ocean
stream.
Him, haply, slumbering on the Norway
foam,
The pilot of some small night-foundered
skiff,
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
With fixed anchor in his scaly rind
Moors by his side under die lee, while
night
Invests the sea, and wished morn delays:
So stretched out huge in length the arch-
fiend lay
Chained on the burning lake: nor ever
thence
Had risen, or heaved his head; but that the
will
And high permission of all-ruling Heaven
Left hun at large to his own dark designs;
/That with reiterated crimes he might
Heap on himself damnation, while he
sought
Evil to others; and, enraged, might see
How all his malice served but to bring
forth
Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shown
On man by him seduced; but on himself
Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance
poured.
Forthwith upright he rears from off the
pool
His mighty stature; on each hand the
flames,
Driven backward, slope their pointing
spires, and rolled
In billows, leave i' the midst a horrid vale.
Then with expanded wings he steers his
flight
Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air,
That felt unusual weight; till on dry land
He lights, if it were land that ever burned
With solid, as the lake with liquid fire;
And such appeared in hue, as when the
force
Of subterranean wind transports a hill
Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side
Of thundering Etna, whose combustible
And fuelled entrails thence conceiving fire,
Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds,
And leave a singed bottom, all involved
Wil* stench and smoke: such resting found
the sole
Ol unblest feet. Him followed his next
mate:
Both glorying to have 'scaped the Stygian
flood,
As gods, and by their own recovered
strength,
Not by the sufferance of supernal power.
"Is this the region, this the soil, the
clime,"
Said then the lost archangel, " this the seat
That we must change for heaven; this
mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he,
Who now is Sovereign, can dispose and bid
What shall be right: farthest from him is
best,
Whom reason hath equaled, force hath
made supreme
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors!
hail
Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell,
Receive thy new possessor — one who
brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time:
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of
heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be; all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here
at least
We shall be free: the Almighty hath not
built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and, in my
choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell;
Better to reign in hell, than serve in
heaven.
But wherefore let we then our faithful
friends,
The associates and co-partners of our loss,
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,
And call them not to share with us their
part
In this unhappy mansion; or once more
With rallied arms to try what may be yet
Regained in heaven, or what more lost in
hell?"
So Satan spake, and him Beelzebub
Thus answered: "Leader of those armies
bright,
Which, but the Omnipotent, none could
have foiled,
If once they hear that voice, their liveliest
pledge
Of hope in fears and dangers, heard so oft
In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Of battle when it raged, in all assaults
Their surest signal, they will soon resume
New courage and revive; though now they
lie
Groveling and prostrate on yon lake of
fire,
As we erewhile, astounded and amazed;
No wonder, fall'n such a pernicious
height."
He scarce had ceased, when the superior
fiend
Was moving toward the shore: his ponder-
ous shield
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,
Behind him cast; the broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the moon,
whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist
views
At evening, from the top of Fesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great admiral, ivere but a wand,
He walked with, to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marl, not like those steps
On heaven's azure, and the torrid clime
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with
fire:
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called
His legions, angel forms, who lay en-
tranced,
Thick as autumnal leaves, that strew the
brooks
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian
shades,
High over-arched, embower; or scattered
sedge
Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed
Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose
waves o'erthrew
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,
While with perfidious hatred they pursued
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld
From the safe shore their floating carcasses
And broken chariot- wheels; so thick be-
strewn,
Abject and lost lay these, covering the
flood,
Under amazement of their hideous change.
He called so loud, that all the hollow deep
Of hell resounded. "Princes, potentates,
Warriors, the flower of heaven, once yours,
now lost,
If such astonishment as this can seize
Eternal spirits; or have ye chosen this place
After the toil of battle to repose
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you
find
To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven?
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
To adore the Conqueror? who now beholds
Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon
His swift pursuers from heaven-gates dis-
cern
The advantage, and descending, tread UL
down
Thus drooping, or with linked thunder-
bolts
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf?
Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n!"
They heard, and were abashed, and up
they sprung
Upon the wing; as when men, wont to
watch
On duty, sleeping found by whom they
dread,
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well
awake.
Nor did they not perceive the evil plight
In which they were, or the fierce pains not
feel;
Yet to their general's voice they soon
obeyed,
Innumerable. As when the potent rod
Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day,
Waved round the coast, up called a pitchy
cloud
Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind,
That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh
hung
Like night, and darkened all the land of
Nile:
So numberless were those bad angels seen
Hovering on wing under the cope of hell,
'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding
fires;
Till, at a signal given, the uplifted spear
Of their great sultan waving to direct
Their course, in even balance down they
light
EPIC AND ROMANCE
On the firm brimstone, and fill all the
plain:
A multitude like which the populous north
Poured never from her frozen loins, to pass
Rhine or the Danube, when her barbarous
sons
Came like a deluge on the south and spread
Beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands.
Forthwith from every squadron and each
band
The heads and leaders thither haste where
stood
Their great commander; godlike shapes
and forms
Excelling human; princely dignities;
And powers that erst in heaven sat on
thrones,
Though of their names in heavenly records
now
Be no memorial; blotted out and rased
By their rebellion from the books of life.
Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve
Got them new names; till, wandering o'er
the earth,
Through God's high sufferance, for the
trial of man,
By falsities and lies the greater part
Of mankind they corrupted to forsake
God their Creator, and the invisible
Glory of him that made them, to trans-
form
Oft to the image of a brute, adorned
With gay religions, full of pomp and gold,
And devils to adore for deities:
Then were they known to men by various
names,
And various idols through the heathen
world.
Say, Muse, their names then known,
who first, who last,
Roused from the slumber on that fiery
couch,
At their great emperor's call, as next in
worth,
Came singly where he stood on the bare
strand,
While the promiscuous crowd stood yet
aloof.
The chief were those who from the pit of
hell,
Roaming to seek their prey on earth, durst
fix
Their seats long after next the seat of God,
Then- altars by his altar, gods adored
Among the nations round, and durst abide
Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned
Between the cherubim; yea, often placed
Within his sanctuary itself their shrines,
Abominations; and with cursed things
His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned,
And with their darkness durst affront his
light.
First, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with
blood
Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears;
Though, for the noise of drums and tim-
brels loud,
Their children's cries unheard, that passed
through fire
To his grim idol. Hun the Ammonite
Worshipped in Rabba and her watery
plain,
In Argob and in Basan, to the stream
Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such
Audacious neighborhood, the wisest heart
Of Solomon he led by fraud to build
His temple right against the temple of
God,
On that opprobrious hill; and made his
grove
The pleasant valley of Hinnom, Tophet
thence
And black Gehenna called, the type of hell.
Next, Chemos, the obscene dread of
Moab's sons,
From Aroer to Nebo, and the wild
Of southmost Abarim; in Hesebon
And Horonaim, Seon's realm, beyond
The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines,
And Eleale to the asphaltic pool;
Peor his other name, when he enticed
Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile,
To do him wanton rites, which cost them
woe.
Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged
Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove
Of Moloch homicide: lust hard by hate;
Till good Josiah drove them thence to
hell.
With these came they who, from the bor-
dering flood
Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts
Egypt from Syrian ground, had general
names
54
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Of Baalim and Ashtaroth; those male,
These feminine; for spirits, when they
please,
Can either sex assume, or both; so soft
And uncompounded is their essence pure;
Not tied or manacled with joint or limb,
Nor founded on the brittle strength of
bones,
Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape
they choose,
Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure,
Can execute their aery purposes,
And works of love or enmity fulfil.
For those the race of Israel oft forsook
Their living Strength, and unfrequented
left
His righteous altar, bowing lowly down
To bestial gods; for which their heads as
low
Bowed down in battle, sunk before the
spear
Of despicable foes. With these in troop
Came Astoreth, whom the Phenicians
called
Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent
horns;
To whose bright image nightly by the
moon
Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs;
In Sion also not unsung, where stood
Her temple on the offensive mountain,
built
By that uxorious king, whose heart,
though large,
Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell
To idols foul. Thammuz came next be-
hind,
Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate
In amorous ditties all a summer's day;
While smooth Adonis from his native rock
Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded; the love-
tale
Infected Sion's daughters with like heat;
Whose wanton passions in the sacred
porch
Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led,
His eye surveyed the dark idolatries
Of alienated Judah. Next came one
Who mourned in earnest, when the captive
ark
Maimed his brute image, head and hands
lopped off
In his own temple, on the grunsel edge,
Where he fell flat, and shamed his wo*
shippers;
Dagon his name, sea-monster, upward man
And downward fish; yet had his temple
high
Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the
coast
Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon,
And Accaron and Gazar's frontier bounds.
Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful
seat
Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks
Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams.
He also 'gainst the house of God was bold *
A leper once he lost, and gained a king;
Ahaz his sottish conqueror, whom he drew
God's altar to disparage and displace
For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burr
His odious offerings, and adore the gods
Whom he had vanquished. After these
appeared
A crew who, under names of old renown,
Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train,
With monstrous shapes and sorceries
abused
Fanatic Egypt and her priests, to seek
Their wandering gods disguised in brutish
forms
Rather than human. Nor did Israel
'scape
The infection, when their borrowed gold
composed
The caff in Oreb; and the rebel king
Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan,
Likening his Maker to the grazed ox —
Jehovah, who in one night, when he passed
From Egypt marching, equaled with one
stroke
Both her first-born and all her bleating
gods.
Belial came last, than whom a spirit more
lewd
Fell not from heaven, or more gross to love
Vice for itself; to him no temple stood,
Or altar smoked; yet who more oft than he
In temples and at altars, when the priest
Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled
With lust and violence the house of God?
In courts and palaces he also reigns,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
5S
And in luxurious cities, where the noise
Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers,
And injury and outrage: and when night
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the
sons
Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
Witness the streets of Sodom, and that
night
In Gibeah, when the hospitable door
Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape.
These were the prime in order and in
might:
The rest were long to tell, though far re-
nowned,
The Ionian gods — of Ja van's issue held
Gods, yet confessed later than heaven and
earth,
Their boasted parents: Titan, heaven's
first-born
With his enormous brood, and birthright
seized
By younger Saturn; he from mightier Jove,
His own and Rhea's son, like measure
found;
So Jove usurping reigned: these first in
Crete
And Ida known, thence on the snowy top
Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air,
Their highest heaven; or on the Delphian
cliff,
Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds
Of Doric land : or who with Saturn old
Fled over Adria to the Hesperian fields,
And o'er the Celtic roamed the utmost
isles.
All these and more came flocking, but
with looks
Downcast and damp; yet such wherein ap-
peared
Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have found
their chief
Not in despair, to have found themselves
not lost
In loss itself; which on his countenance
cast
Like doubtful hue; but he, his wonted pride
Soon recollecting, with high words, that
bore
Semblance of worth, not substance, gently
raised
Their fainting courage, and dispelled their
fears.
Then straight commands that at the war-
like sound
Of trumpets loud and clarions be upreared
His mighty standard; that proud honor
claimed
Azazel as his right, a cherub tall;
Who forthwith from the glittering staff un-
furled
The imperial ensign; which, full high ad-
vanced,
Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind,
With gems and golden luster rich em-
blazed,
Seraphic arms and trophies, all the while
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds:
At which the universal host up-sent
A shout, that tore hell's concave, and be-
yond
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.
All hi a moment through the gloom were
seen
Ten thousand banners rise into the air,
With orient colors waving; with them rose
A forest huge of spears; and thronging
helms
Appeared, and serried shields in thick
array
Of depth immeasurable; anon they move
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood
Of flutes and soft recorders; such as raised
To height of noblest temper heroes old
Arming to battle, and instead of rage,
Deliberate valor breathed, firm and un-
moved
With dread of death to flight or foul re-
treat;
Nor wanting power to mitigate and 'suage
With solemn touches troubled thoughts,
and chase
Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and sorrow,
and pain
From mortal or immortal minds. Tkus
they,
Breathing united force, with fixed thought,
Moved on in silence, to soft pipes, that
charmed
Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil: and
now
Advanced in view they stand; a horrid
front
Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in
guise
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Of warriors old with ordered spear and
shield,
Awaiting what command their mighty
chief
Had to impose: he through the armed files
Darts his experienced eye, and soon tra-
verse
The whole battalion views, their order due,
Their visages and stature as of gods;
Their number last he sums. And now his
heart
Distends with pride, and hardening in his
strength
Glories: for never since created man
Met such embodied force as, named with
these,
Could merit more than that small infantry
Warred on by cranes: though all the giant
brood
Of Phlegra with the heroic race were joined
That fpught at Thebes and Ilium, on each
side
Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what re-
sounds
In fable or romance of Uther's son
Begirt with British and Armoric knights;
And all who since, baptized or infidel,
Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban,
Damascus, or Morocco, or Trebizond,
Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore,
When Charlemagne with all his peerage
fell
By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond
Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed
Their dread commander; he, above the
rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
Stood like a tower; his form had yet not
lost
All its original brightness; nor appeared
Less than archangel ruined, and the excess
Of glory obscured: as when the sun, new
risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the
moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of
change
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet
shone
Above them all the archangel; but his face
Deep scars of thunder had entrenched; and
care
Sat on his faded cheek; but under brows
Of dauntless courage, and considerate
pride
Waiting revenge; cruel his eye, but cast
Signs of remorse and passion, to behold
The fellows of his crime, the followers
rather
(Far other once beheld in bliss), con-
demned
For ever now to have their lot in pain;
Millions of spirits for his fault amerced
Of heaven, and from eternal splendors
flung
For his revolt; yet faithful how they stood,
Their glory withered; as when heaven's
fire
Hath scathed the forest oaks, or mountain
pines,
With singed top their stately growth,
though bare,
Stands on the blasted heath. He now pre-
pared
To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they
bend
From wing to whig, and half enclose him
round
With all his peers: attention held them
mute.
Thrice he essayed, and thrice, in spite ot
scorn,
Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth; at
last
Words, interwove with sighs, found out
their way.
"O myriads of immortal spirits! 0
powers
Matchless, but with the Almighty; and
that strife
Was not inglorious, though the event was
dire,
As this place testifies, and this dire change,
Hateful to utter! but what power of mind,
Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth
Of knowledge, past or present, could have
feared
How such united force of gods, how such
As stood like these, could ever know re-
pulse?
For who can yet believe, though after loss,
That all these puissant legions, whose exile
EPIC AND ROMANCE
57
Hath emptied heaven, shall fail to reascend
Self -raised, and repossess their native seat?
For me, be witness all the host of heaven,
If counsels different, or dangers shunned
By me, have lost our hopes. But he who
reigns
Monarch in heaven, till then as one secure
Sat on this throne upheld by old repute,
Consent or custom; and his regal state
Put forth at full, but still his strength con-
cealed,
Which tempted our attempt, and wrought
our fall.
Henceforth his might we know, and know
our own;
So as not either to provoke, or dread
New war, provoked; our better part re-
mains,
To work in close design, by fraud or guile,
What force effected not; that he no less
At length from us may find, who over-
comes
By force, hath overcome but half his foe.
Space may produce new worlds; whereof
so rife
There went a fame in heaven that he ere
long
Intended to create, and therein plant
A generation, whom his choice regard
Should favor equal to the sons of heaven:
Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps
Our first eruption; thither, or elsewhere;
For this infernal pit shall never hold
Celestial spirits in bondage, nor the abyss
Long under darkness cover. But these
thoughts
Full counsel must mature; peace is de-
spaired ;
For who can think submission? War,
then, war,
Open or understood, must be resolved."
He spake; and, to confirm his words,
outflew
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the
thighs
Of mighty cherubim; the sudden blaze
Far round illumined hell; highly they
raged
Against the Highest, and fierce with
grasped arms
Clashed on their sounding shields the din
of war,
Hurling defiance toward the vault of
heaven.
There stood a hill not far, whose grisly
top
Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest en-
tire
Shone with a glossy scurf, undoubted sign
That in his womb was hid metallic ore,
The work of sulphur. Thither, winged
with speed,
A numerous brigade hastened: as when
bands
Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe
armed,
Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field,
Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on :
Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell
From heaven; for even in heaven his looks
and thoughts
Were always downward bent, admiring
more
The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden
gold,
Than aught, divine or holy, else enjoyed
In vision beatific; by him first
Men also, and by his suggestion taught,
Ransacked the center, and with impious
hands
Rifled the bowels of their mother earth
For treasures, better hid. Soon had his
crew
Opened into the hill a spacious wound,
And digged out ribs of gold. Let none ad-
mire
That riches grow in hell; that soil may
best
Deserve the precious bane. And here let
those
Who boast in mortal things, and wonder-
ing tell
Of Babel, and the works of Memphian
kings,
Learn how their greatest monuments of
fame,
And strength and art, are easily outdone
By spirits reprobate, and in an hour
What in an age they with incessant toil
And hands innumerable scarce perform.
Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared,
That underneath had veins of liquid fire
Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude
With wondrous art founded the massy ore.
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Severing each kind, and scummed the bul-
lion dross;
A third as soon had formed within the
ground
A various mold, and from the boiling cells,
By strange conveyance, filled each hollow
nook,
As hi an organ, from one blast of wind,
To many a row of pipes the sound-board
breathes.
Anon, out of the earth a fabric huge
Rose like an exhalation, with the sound
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet,
Built like a temple, where pilasters round
Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid
With golden architrave; nor did there want
Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures
graven:
The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon,
Nor great Alcairo, such magnificence
Equaled in all their glories, to enshrine
'Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat
Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria
strove
In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile
Stood fixed her stately height: and straight
the doors,
Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide
Within, her ample spaces, o'er the smooth
And level pavement; from the arched
roof,
Pendent by subtle magic, many a row
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed
With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light
As from a sky. The hasty multitude
Admiring entered; and the work some
praise,
And some the architect: his hand was
known
In heaven by many a towered structure
high
Where sceptered angels held their resi-
dence,
And sat as princes; whom the supreme
King
Exalted to such power, and gave to rule,
Each in his hierarchy, the orders bright.
Nor was his name unheard or unadored
In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land
Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell
From heaven they fabled, thrown by
angry Jove
Sheer o'er the crystal battlements: from
morn
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
A summer's day; and with the setting sun
Dropped from the zenith like a falling star,
On Lemnos, th' ^Egean isle: thus they re-
late,
Erring; for he with this rebellious rout
Fell long before; nor aught availed hinv
now
To have built in heaven high towers; nor
did he 'scape
By all his engines, but was headlong sent
With his industrious crew to build in hell.
Meanwhile, the winged heralds, by com-
mand
Of sovereign power, with awful ceremony
And trumpet's sound, throughout the host
proclaim
A solemn council, forthwith to be held
At Pandemonium, the high capital
Of Satan and his peers: their summons
called
From every band and squared regiment
By place or choice the worthiest; they
anon,
With hundreds and with thousands, troop-
ing came,
Attended; all access was thronged; the
gates
And porches wide, but chief the spacious
hall
(Though like a covered field, where cham-
pions bold
Wont ride in armed, and at the soldan's
chair
Defied the best of paynim chivalry
To mortal combat, or career with lance),
Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in
the air,
Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings.
As bees
In spring-time, when the sun with Taurus
rides,
Pour forth their populous youth about the
hive
In clusters; they among fresh dews and
flowers
Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank.
The suburb of their straw-built citadel,
New rubbed with balm, expatiate, and
confer
EPIC AND ROMANCE
59
Their state affairs; so thick the aery crowd
Swarmed and were straitened; till, the sig-
nal given,
Behold a wonder! They, but now who
seemed
In bigness to surpass earth's giant sons,
Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow
room
Throng numberless, like that Pygmean
race
Beyond the Indian mount, or faery elves,
Whose midnight revels, by a forest side
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
Or dreams he sees, while over head the
moon
Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth
Wheels her pale course; they, on their
mirth and dance
Intent, with jocund music charm his ear;
At once with joy and fear his heart re-
bounds.
Thus incorporeal spirits to smallest forms
Reduced their shapes immense, and were
at large,
Though without number still, amidst the
hall
Of that infernal court. But far within,
And in their own dimensions, like them-
selves,
The great seraphic lords and cherubim
In close recess and secret conclave sat;
A thousand demi-gods on golden seats
Frequent and full. After short silence
then,
And summons read, the great consult be-
gan.
BOOK II
ARGUMENT
THE consultation begun, Satan debates whether
another battle be to be hazarded for the re-
covery of Heaven: some advise it, others
dissuade. A third proposal is preferred, men-
tioned before by Satan — to search the truth
of that prophecy or tradition in Heaven con-
cerning another world, and another kind of
creature, equal, or not much inferior, to them-
selves, about this time to be created. Their
doubt who shall be sent on this difficult search;
Satan, their chief, undertakes alone the voy-
age; is honored and applauded. The council
thus ended, the rest betake them several ways
and to several employments, as their inclina-
tions lead them, to entertain the time till
Satan return. He passes on his journey to
Hell-gates; finds them shut, and who sat there
to guard them; by whom at length they are
opened, [and discover to him the great gulf
between Hell and Heaven. With what diffi-
culty he passes through, directed by Chaos,
the Power of that place, to the sight of this
new World which he sought.
HIGH on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East, with richest
hand,
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and
gold,
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence; and, from despair
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue
Vain war with Heaven; and, by success un-
taught,
His proud imaginations thus displayed: —
"Powers and dominions, deities of
heaven;
For since no deep within her gulf can hold
Immortal vigor, though oppressed and
fallen,
I give not heaven for lost. From this de-
scent
Celestial virtues rising, will appear
More glorious and more dread than from
no fall,
And trust themselves to fear no second fate.
Me, though just right, and the fixed laws
of heaven,
Did first create your leader; next, free
choice,
With what besides, in council or in fight,
Hath been achieved of merit; yet this loss,
Thus far at least recovered, hath much
more
Established in a safe unenvied throne,
Yielded with full consent. The happier
state
In heaven, which follows dignity, might
draw
Envy from each inferior; but who here
Will envy whom the highest place exposes
Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's
aim,
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest
share
6o
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Of endless pain? Where there is then no
good
For which to strive, no strife can grow up
there
From faction; for none sure will claim in
hell
Precedence; none whose portion is so small
Of present pain, that with ambitious mind
Will covet more. With this advantage,
then,
To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,
More than can be in heaven, we now re-
turn
To claim our just inheritance of old.
Surer to prosper than prosperity
Could have assured us; and, by what best
way,
Whether of open war or covert guile,
We now debate: who can advise, may
speak."
He ceased; and next him Moloch, scep-
tered king,
Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest
spirit
That fought in heaven, now fiercer by
despair.
His trust was with the Eternal to be
deemed
Equal hi strength; and rather than be less,
Cared not to be at all; with that care lost
Went all his fear: of God, or hell, or worse,
He recked not; and these words thereafter
spake: —
"My sentence is for open war: of wiles,
More unexpert, I boast not; them let those
Contrive who need, or when they need, not
now.
For, while they sit contriving, shall the
rest,
Millions that stand in arms, and longing
wait
The signal to ascend, sit lingering here
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling
place
Accept this dark, opprobrious den of
shame,
The prison of his tyranny who reigns
By our delay? No, let us rather choose,
Armed with hell-flames and fury, all at
once,
O'er heaven's high towers to force resist-
less way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the torturer; when, to meet the
noise
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear
Infernal thunder; and, for lightning, see
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
Among his angels; and his throne itself
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur, and strange
fire,
His own invented torments. But perhaps
The way seems difficult and steep to scale
With upright wing against a higher foe.
Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,
That in our proper motion we ascend
Up to our native seat ; descent and fall
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,
When the fierce foe hung on our broken
rear
Insulting, and pursued us through the
deep,
With what compulsion and laborious flight
We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy
then;
The event is feared; should we again pro-
voke
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath
may find
To our destruction; if there be in hell
Fear to be worse destroyed; what can be
worse
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss,
condemned
In this abhorred deep to utter woe;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Must exercise us without hope of end,
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorable, and the torturing hour,
Calls us to penance? More destroyed than
thus,
We should be quite abolished, and expire.
What fear we, then? what doubt we to in-
cense
His utmost ire? which, to the height en-
raged,
Will either quite consume us, and reduce
To nothing this essential (happier far
Than miserable to have eternal being),
Or, if our substance be indeed divine,
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
61
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne;
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge."
He ended frowning, and his look de-
nounced
Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous
To less than gods. On the other side up-
rose
Belial, in act more graceful and humane;
A fairer person lost not heaven ; he seemed
For dignity composed, and high exploit:
But all was false and hollow, though his
tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worse
appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were
low:
To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds
Timorous and slothful; yet he pleased the
ear,
And with persuasive accent thus began: —
" I should be much for open war, O peers,
As not behind in hate; if what was urged
Main reason to persuade immediate war,
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast
Ominous conjecture on the whole success
When he who most excels in fact of arms,
In what he counsels and in what excels
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair
And utter dissolution as the scope
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.
First, what revenge? The towers of
heaven are filled
With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable; oft on the bordering deep
Encamp their legions; or, with obscure
wing,
Scout far and wide into the realm of night,
Scorning surprise. Or could we break our
way
By force, and at our heels all hell should
rise
With blackest insurrection, to confound
Heaven's purest light; yet our great
enemy,
All incorruptible, would on his throne
Sit unpolluted, and the ethereal mold,
Incapable of stain, would soon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope
Is flat despair: we must exasperate
The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage,
And that must end us; that must be our
cure,
To be no more. Sad cure! for who would
lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Those thoughts that wander through eter-
nity,
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated night,
Devoid of sense and motion? And who
knows,
Let this be good, whether our angry foe
Can give it, or will ever? how he can,
Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure.
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire
Belike through impotence, or unaware,
To give his enemies their wish, and end
Them in his anger whom his anger saves
To punish endless? ' Wherefore cease we
then?'
Say they who counsel war. 'We are de-
creed,
Reserved, and destined to eternal woe;
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,
What can we suffer worse? ' Is this then
worst,
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?
What, when we fled amain, pursued, and
struck
With heaven's afflicting thunder, and be-
sought
The deep to shelter us? this hell then
seemed
A refuge from those wounds; or when we
lay
Chained on the burning lake? that sure was
worse.
What if the breath that kindled those grim
fires,
Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold
rage,
And plunge us in the flames? or, from
above,
Should intermitted vengeance arm again
His red right hand to plague us? What
if all
Her stores were opened, and this firmament
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire,
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall
One day upon our heads; while we, per-
haps,
62
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Designing or exhorting glorious war,
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and
prey
Of racking whirlwinds; or for ever sunk
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains;
There to converse with everlasting groans,
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved,
Ages of hopeless end? This would be
worse.
War, therefore, open or concealed, alike
My voice dissuades; for what can force or
guile
With him, or who deceive his mind, whose
eye
Views all things at one view? He from
heaven's height
All these our motions vain sees and de-
rides:
Not more almighty to resist our might,
Than wise to frustrate all our plots and
wiles.
Shall we then live thus vile, the race of
heaven
Thus trampled, thus expelled, to suffer
here
Chains and these torments? Better these
than worse,
By my advice; since fate inevitable
Subdues us, and omnipotent decree,
The victor's will. To suffer, as to do,
Our strength is equal, nor the law unjust
That so ordains; this was at first resolved,
If we were wise, against so great a foe
Contending, and so doubtful what might
faU.
I laugh, when those who at the spear are
bold
And venturous, if that fail them, shrink
and fear
What yet they know must follow, to en-
dure
Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain,
The sentence of their conqueror; this is
now
Our doom; which if we can sustain and
bear,
Our supreme foe in time may much remit
His anger; and perhaps, thus far removed,
Not mind us not offending, satisfied
With what is punished; whence these rag-
ing fires
Will slacken, if his breath stir not their
flames.
Our purer essence then will overcome
Their noxious vapor; or, inured, not feel;
Or, changed at length, and to the place
conformed
In temper and in nature, will receive
Familiar the fierce heat, and void of pain;
This horror will grow mild, this darkness
light;
Besides what hope the never-ending flight
Of future days may bring, what chance,
what change
Worth waiting; since our present lot ap-
pears
For happy though but ill, for ill not worst,
If we procure not to ourselves more woe."
Thus Belial, with words clothed in
reason's garb,
Counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth,
Not peace; and after him thus Mammon
spake: —
"Either to disenthrone the King of
heaven
We war, if war be best, or to regain
Our own right lost: him to unthrone we
then
May hope, when everlasting fate shall yield
To fickle chance, and Chaos judge the
strife:
The former, vain to hope, argues as vain
The latter; for what place can be for us
Within heaven's bound, unless heaven's
Lord supreme
We overpower? Suppose he should relent,
And publish grace to all, on promise made
Of new subjection; with what eyes could
we
Stand in his presence humble, and receive
Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne
With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead
sing
Forced hallelujahs, while he lordly sits
Our envied sovereign, and his altar
breathes
Ambrosial odors and ambrosial flowers,
Our servile offerings? This must be our
task
In heaven, this our delight; how wearisome
Eternity so spent, in worship paid
To whom we hate ! Let us not then pursue
By force impossible, by leave obtained
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Unacceptable, though in heaven, our
state
Of splendid vassalage; but rather seek
Our own good from ourselves, and from our
own
Live to ourselves, though in this vast re-
cess,
Free, and to none accountable, preferring
Hard liberty before the easy yoke
Of servile pomp. Our greatness will ap-
pear
Then most conspicuous, when great things
of small,
Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse,
We can create; and in what place soe'er
Thrive under evil, and work ease out of
pain,
Through labor and endurance. This deep
world
Of darkness do we dread? How oft
amidst
Thick clouds and dark doth heaven's all-
ruling Sire
Choose to reside, his glory unobscured,
And with the majesty of darkness round
Covers his throne; from whence deep thun-
ders roar,
Mustering their rage, and heaven resem-
bles hell!
As he our darkness, cannot we his light
Imitate when we please? This desert soil
Wants not her hidden luster, gems and
gold;
Nor want we skill or art, from whence to
raise
Magnificence; and what can heaven show
more?
Our torments also may in length of time
Become our elements; these piercing fires
As soft as now severe, our temper changed
Into their temper; which must needs re-
move
The sensible of pain. All things invite
To peaceful counsels, and the settled state
Of order, how in safety best we may
Compose our present evils, with regard
Of what we are, and where; dismissing
quite
All thoughts of war. Ye have what I ad-
vise."
He scarce had finished, when such mur-
mur filled
The assembly, as when hollow rocks re-
tain
The sound of blustering winds which all
night long
Had roused the sea, now with hoarse ca-
dence lull
Seafaring men o'er-watched, whose bark
by chance
Or pinnace anchors in a craggy bay
After the tempest: such applause was
heard
As Mammon ended, and his sentence
pleased,
Advising peace; for such another field
They dreaded worse than hell; so much the
fear
Of thunder and the sword of Michael
Wrought still within them, and no less
desire
To found this nether empire, which might
rise
By policy, and long process of time,
In emulation opposite to heaven.
Which when Beelzebub perceived, than
whom,
Satan except, none higher sat, with grave
Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed
A pillar of state; deep on his front en-
graven
Deliberation sat, and public care;
And princely counsel in his face yet shone,
Majestic, though in ruin; sage he stood.
With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear
The weight of mightiest monarchies; his
look
Drew audience and attention still as night
Or summer's noontide air, while thus he
spake : —
" Thrones and imperial powers, offspring
of heaven,
Ethereal virtues! or these titles now
Must we renounce, and, changing style, be
called
Princes of hell, for so the popular vote
Inclines, here to continue and build up
here
A growing empire; doubtless, while we
dream,
And know not that the King of heaven
hath doomed
This place our dungeon; not our safe re-
treat
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Beyond his potent arm; to live exempt
From heaven's high jurisdiction, in new
league
Banded against his throne, but to remain
In strictest bondage, though thus far re-
moved,
Under the inevitable curb, reserved
His captive multitude; for he, be sure,
In height or depth, still first and last will
reign
Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no part
By our revolt, but over hell extend
His empire, and with iron scepter rule
Us here, as with his golden those in heaven.
What sit we then projecting peace and
war?
War hath determined us, and foiled with
loss
Irreparable; terms of peace yet none
Vouchsafed or sought; for what peace will
be given
To us enslaved but custody severe,
And stripes, and arbitrary punishment
Inflicted? and what peace can we return,
But to our power hostility and hate,
Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though
slow,
Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least
May reap his conquest, and may least re-
joice
In doing what we most in suffering feel?
Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need
With dangerous expedition to invade
Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault
or siege,
Or ambush from the deep. What if we
find
Some easier enterprise? There is a place
(If ancient and prophetic fame hi heaven
Err not), another world, the happy seat
Of some new race, called Man, about this
time
To be created like to us, though less
In power and excellence, but favored more
Of him who rules above; so was his will
Pronounced among the gods; and by an
oath
That shook heaven's whole circumference
confirmed.
Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to
learn
What creatures there inhabit, of what mold
Or substance, how endued, and what their
power,
And where their weakness, how attempted
best,
By force or subtlety. Though heaven be
shut,
And heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure
In his own strength, this place may lie
exposed,
The utmost border of his kingdom, left
To their defense who hold it ; here perhaps
Some advantageous act may be achieved
By sudden onset ; either with hell-fire
To waste his whole creation, or possess
All as our own, and drive, as we were
driven,
The puny habitants; or, if not drive,
Seduce them to our party, that their God
May prove their foe, and with repenting
hand
Abolish his own works. This would sur-
pass
Common revenge, and interrupt his joy
In our confusion, and our joy upraise
In his disturbance, when his darling sons,
Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall
curse
Their frail original and faded bliss,
Faded so soon. Advise, if this be worth
Attempting, or to sit in darkness here
Hatching vain empires." Thus Beelzebub
Pleaded his devilish counsel, first devised
By Satan, and in part proposed : for whence
But from the author of all ill could spring
So deep a malice, to confound the race
Of mankind in one root, and earth with
hell
To mingle and involve, done all to spite
The great Creator? But their spite still
serves
His glory to augment. The bold design
Pleased highly those infernal states, and
joy
Sparkled in all their eyes: with full assent
They vote: whereat his speech he thu< re-
news:—
"Well have ye judged, well ended long
debate,
Synod of gods, and, like to what ye are,
Great things resolved, which from the
lowest deep
Will once more lift us up, in spite of fate.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Nearer our ancient seat: perhaps in view
Of those bright confines, whence, with
neighboring arms,
And opportune excursion, we may chance
Re-enter heaven; or else in some mild
zone
Dwell, not unvisited of heaven's fair light,
Secure ; and at the brightening orient beam
Purge off this gloom ; the soft delicious air,
To heal the scar of these corrosive fires,
Shall breathe her balm. But first, whom
shall we send
In search of this new world? whom shall
we find
Sufficient? who shall tempt with wandering
feet
The dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss,
And through the palpable obscure find
out
His uncouth way, or spread his aery flight,
Upborne with indefatigable wings,
Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive
The happy isle? What strength, what art,
can then
Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe
Through the strict senteries and stations
thick
Of angels watching round? Here he had
need
All circumspection, and we now no less
Choice in our suffrage; for, on whom we
send,
The weight of all, and our last hope relies."
This said, he sat; and expectation held
His look suspense, awaiting who appeared
To second, or oppose, or undertake
The perilous attempt: but all sat mute,
Pondering the danger with deep thoughts;
and each
In other's countenance read his own dis-
may,
Astonished: none among the choice and
prime
Of those heaven-warring champions could
be found
So hardy as to proffer or accept,
Alone, the dreadful voyage; till at last
Satan, whom now transcendent glory
raised
Above his fellows, with monarchal pride,
Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus
spake :—
"O progeny of heaven! empyreal
thrones!
With reason hath deep silence and demur
Seized us, though undismayed. Long is
the way
And hard, that out of hell leads up to
light;
Our prison strong; this huge convex of fire,
Outrageous to devour, immures us round
Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant,
Barred over us, prohibit all egress.
These passed, if any pass, the void pro-
found
Of unessential night receives him next,
Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being
Threatens him plunged in that abortive
gulf.
If thence he 'scape into whatever world
Or unknown region, what remains him less
Than unknown dangers and as hard es-
cape?
But I should ill become this throne, O
peers,
And this imperial sovereignty, adorned
With splendor, armed with power, if aught
proposed
And judged of public moment, in the shape
Of difficulty or danger, could deter
Me from attempting. Wherefore do I
assume
These royalties, and not refuse to reign,
Refusing to accept as great a share
Of hazard as of honor, due alike
To him who reigns, and so much to him due
Of hazard more, as he above the rest
High honored sits? Go, therefore, mighty
powers,
Terror of heaven, though fallen; intend at
home
(While here shall be our home) what best
may ease
The present misery, and render hell
More tolerable; if there be cure or charm
To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain
Of this ill mansion; intermit no watch
Against a wakeful foe, while I abroad
Through all the coasts of dark destruction
seek
Deliverance for us all: this enterprise
None shall partake with me." Thus say-
ing, rose
The monarch, and prevented all reply;
66
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Prudent, lest from his resolution raised
Others among the chief might offer now
(Certain to be refused) what erst they
feared;
And, so refused, might in opinion stand
His rivals; winning cheap the high repute
Which he through hazard huge must earn.
But they
Dreaded not more the adventure than his
voice
Forbidding; and at once with him they rose.
Their rising all at once was as the sound
Of thunder heard remote. Towards him
they bend
With awful reverence prone; and as a god
Extol him equal to the Highest in heaven.
Nor failed they to express how much they
praised
That for the general safety he despised
'His own: for neither do the spirits damned
Lose all their virtue; lest bad men should
boast
Their specious deeds on earth, which glory
excites
Or close ambition varnished o'er with zeal.
Thus they their doubtful consultations
dark
Ended, rejoicing in their matchless chief.
As when from mountain-tops the dusky
clouds
Ascending, while the north wind sleeps,
o'erspread
Heaven's cheerful face, the louring element
Scowls o'er the darkened landscape snow
or shower;
If chance the radiant sun, with farewell
sweet,
Extend his evening beam, the fields revive,
The birds their notes renew, and bleating
herds
Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings.
O shame to men ! devil with devil damned
Firm concord holds, men only disagree
Of creatures rational, though under hope
Of heavenly grace; and, God proclaiming
peace,
Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife
Among themselves, and levy cruel wars,
Wasting the earth, each other to destroy:
As if (which might induce us to accord)
Man had not hellish foes enough besides,
That day and night for his destruction wait.
(1667).
BEOWULF
Beowulf (composed in its present form about 900 A. D.), is the epic poem of the Anglo-Saxon race,
the materials for which had been brought from its original Germanic home. Beowulf, with fourteen
companions, sails to Denmark to offer his help to King Hrothgar, whose hall has for years been ravaged
by a sea-monster named Grendel. After an evening of feasting, Beowulf and his friends are left in the
hall alone, Grendel enters, and there follows a fearful struggle between the monster and Beowulf, whose
grip is equal to that of thirty men. The monster escapes but leaves his arm, torn from the shoulder, in
his conqueror's grasp. The next day, all unexpectedly, the mother of Grendel, seeking revenge for the
death of her son, invades the hall and devours one of the Danish thanes. Beowulf pursues her with
his sword and shield to the bottom of the sea where he finally slays her after a severe combat. The
latter half of the poem recounts the hero's fifty years' reign over his people and his death in defense of
his land from the terror of a dragon.
This, in substance, is the heroic poem which reveals to us the habits of our ancestors, their manner
of living, then- ideals of hospitality and generosity and honor to their women. The episode of the com-
bat with GrendePs dam is given below.
BEOWULF AND GRENDEL'S MOTHER*
XIX
GRENDEL'S mother cometh to avenge her son. She
seizes jEschere in Heorot.
THEN they sank to sleep. But one paid
dearly for his evening rest, as had often
•From Beowulf, translated out of the Old English by
the publishers, Messrs. Newson and Company.
happened when Grendel occupied that
gold-hall and wrought evil till his end
came, death for his sins. It now became
evident to men that, though the foe was
dead, there yet lived for a long time after
the fierce combat, an avenger — Grendel's
mother. The witch, woman-monster,
brooded over her woes, she who was
Chauncey Brewster Tinker, Ph. D. Used by permission of
EPIC AND ROMANCE
doomed to dwell among the terrors of the
waters, in the cold streams, from the time
when Cain slew with the sword his only
brother, his own father's son, — then he
departed, banished, marked with murder,
fleeing from the joys of men and dwelt in
the wilderness. From him there woke to
life many Fate-sent demons. One of these
was Grendel, a fierce wolf, full of hatred.
But he had found at Heorot a man on the
watch, waiting to give him battle. Then
the monster grappled with him, but Beo-
wulf bethought him of his mighty strength,
the gift of God, and in Him as the Al-
mighty he trusted for favor, for help and
succor; in this trust he overcame the fiend,
laid low that spirit of hell. Then Grendel,
enemy to mankind, went forth joyless to
behold the abode of death. But his
mother, still wroth and ravenous, deter-
mined to go a sad journey to avenge the
death of her son; and she came to Heorot,
where the Ring-Danes lay asleep about
the hall. Straightway terror fell upon
the heroes once again when Grendel's
mother burst in upon them. But the fear
was less than in the time of Grendel, even
as the strength of maids, or a woman's
rage in war, is less than an armed man's,
what time the hilted sword, hammer-
forged, stained with blood, cleaves with its
keen blade the boar on the foeman's
helmet. There above the benches in the
hall the hard-edged sword was drawn,
and many a shield upreared, fast in the
hand; none thought of helm or broad
corslet when the terror got hold of him.
She was in haste, for she was discovered;
£he wished to get thence with her life. Of
a sudden she clutched one of the heroes,
and was off to the fen. The mighty war-
rior, the famed hero whom the hag mur-
dered in his sleep, was the dearest to
Hrothgar of all the men in his band of
comrades between the seas. Beowulf was
not there; for another lodging-place had
been assigned to the mighty Geat after the
giving of treasure. A cry arose in Heorot.
All in its gore she had taken the well-known
arm; sorrow was renewed again in the
dwellings. No good exchange was that
which cost both peoples the lives of friends.
Then the old king, the hoary warrior,
was sad at heart when he learned that his
chief thane had lost his life, that his dear-
est friend was dead. Straightway Beo-
wulf, the hero blessed with victory, was
brought to the bower; the prince, the noble
warrior, went at daybreak with his com-
rades to where the prudent king was wait-
ing to know if perchance the Almighty
would ever work a happy change for him,
after the tidings of woe. And the hero,
famed in war, went o'er the floor with
his band of thanes, — while loud the hall
resounded, — to greet the wise lord of the
Ingwines; he asked if his night had been
restful, as he had wished.
XX
HSOTHGAR lamenteth for ^Eschere. He tells
Beowulf of the monster and her haunt.
HROTHGAR, defence of the Scyldings,
spoke: "Ask not after bliss, — sorrow is
renewed in the hall for the Danish people.
^Eschere is dead, Yrmenlaf 's elder brother,
my councilor and my adviser, who stood
by me, shoulder to shoulder, when we
warded our heads in battle, while hosts
rushed together and helmets crashed.
Like ^Eschere should every noble be, — an
excellent hero. He was slain in Heorot by
a restless destroyer.
"I know not whither the awful monster,
exulting over her prey, has turned her
homeward steps, rejoicing in her fill.
She has avenged the strife in which thou
slewest Grendel yesternight, grappling
fiercely with him, for that he too long had
wasted and destroyed my people. He fell
in battle, forfeiting his life, and now an-
other is come, a mighty and a deadly foe,
thinking to avenge her son. She has
carried the feud further; wherefore it may
well seem a heavy woe to many a thane
who grieveth in spirit for his treasure-giver.
Low lies the hand which did satisfy all
your desires.
"I have heard the people dwelling in
my land, hall-rulers, say that they had
often seen two such mighty stalkers of the
marches, spirits of otherwhere, haunting
68
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
the moors. One of them, as they could
know full well, was like unto a woman; the
other miscreated being, in the image of
man wandered in exile (save that he was
larger than any man), whom in the olden
tune the people named Grendel. They
know not if he ever had a father among
the spirits of darkness. They dwell in a
hidden land amid wolf-haunted slopes and
savage fen-paths, nigh the wind-swept
cliffs where the mountain-stream falleth,
shrouded in the mists of the headlands, its
flood flowing underground. It is not far
thence in measurement of miles that the
mere lieth. Over it hang groves in hoary
whiteness; a forest with fixed roots bend-
eth over the waters. There in the night-
tide is a dread wonder seen, — a fire on
the flood! There is none of the children
of men so wise that he knoweth the
depths thereof. Although hard pressed
by hounds, the heath-ranging stag, with
mighty horns, may seek out that forest,
driven from afar, yet sooner will he yield
up life and breath upon the bank than hide
his head within its waters. Cheerless is
the place. Thence the surge riseth, wan
to the clouds, when the winds stir up foul
weather, till the air thicken and the
heavens weep.
"Now once again help rests with thee
alone. Thou knowest not yet the spot,
the savage place where thou mayst find
the sinful creature. Seek it out, if thou
dare. I will reward thee, as I did afore-
time with olden treasures and with twisted
gold, if thou get thence alive."
XXI
THEY track Grendel's mother to the mere. Beo-
wulf slayeth a sea-monster.
THEN spoke Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow:
" Sorrow not, thou wise man. It is better
for a man to avenge his friend than mourn
exceedingly. Each of us must abide the
end of the worldly life, wherefore let him
who may win glory ere he die; thus shall
it be best for a warrior when life is past.
Arise, O guardian of the kingdom, let us
straightway go and look upon the tracks of
Grendel's dam. I promise thee this: she
shall not escape to the covert, nor to the
bosom of the earth, nor to the bottom of
the sea, go where she will. This day do
thou bear in patience every woe of thine,
as I expect of thee."
Then the old man sprang up and
thanked God, the mighty Lord, for what
that man had said. And they bridled
Hrothgar's horse, a steed with wavy mane.
The wise prince rode out in stately wise,
and a troop of warriors marched forth
with their shields. Footprints were clearly
to be seen along the forest-path, her track
across the lands. She had gone forth,
right over the murky moor, and borne
away lifeless that best of thanes, who with
Hrothgar ruled the hall.
And the offspring of princes went over
steep and rocky slopes and narrow ways;
straight lonely passes, an unknown course;
over sheer cliffs where were many haunts
of the sea-monsters. He, with a few pru-
dent men, went on before to view the
spot, until he suddenly came upon moun-
tain-trees o'er-hanging the gray rock, — a
cheerless wood. Beneath it lay a water,
bloody and troubled. All the Danes, all
the friends of the Scyldings, each hero and
many a thane, were sad at heart and had
to suffer sore distress; for there upon the
sea-cliff they found the head of ^schere.
The waters were seething with blood and
hot gore; — the people looked upon it.
At times the horn sang out an eager
battle-lay. All the troop sat down. They
saw in the water many of the serpent kind,
strange dragons swimming the deep.
Likewise they saw sea-monsters lying along
the headland-slopes, serpents and wild
beasts, who oft at morning-tide make a
journey, fraught with sorrow, over the
sail-road. They sped away, bitter and
swollen with wrath, when they heard the
sound, the song of the battle-horn. But
the lord of the Geats with bow and arrow
took the life of one of them, as it buffeted
the waves, so that the hard shaft pierced
the vitals; he was then the slower in his
swimming on the sea, for death seized him.
Straightway he was hard pressed with the
sharp-barbs of the boar-spears, fiercely at-
EPIC AND ROMANCE
6g
tacked, and drawn up on the cliff, a won-
drous wave-tosser. The men looked on
the strange and grisly beast.
Then Beowulf girded him with noble
armor; he took no thought for his life.
His byrnie, hand-woven, broad, and of
many colors, was to search out the deeps.
This armor could well protect his body so
that the grip of the foe could not harm his
breast, nor the clutch of the angry beast
do aught against his life. Moreover, the
white helmet guarded his head, e'en that
which was to plunge into the depths of
the mere, passing through the tumult of
the waters; it was all decked with gold, en-
circled with noble chains, as the weapon-
smith wrought it in the days of yore;
wondrously he made it, and set it about
with boar-figures so that no brand nor
battle-sword could bite it.
Nor was that the least of his mighty aids
which Hrothgar's spokesman lent him in
his need; — the name of the hilted sword
was Hrunting, and it was one of the great-
est among the olden treasures; its blade
was of iron, stained with poison-twigs,
hardened with the blood of battle; it had
never failed any man whose hand had
wielded it in the fight, any who durst go
on perilous adventures to the field of
battle; — it was not the first time that it had
need to do high deeds. Surely when
the son of Ecglaf, strong in his might,
lent that weapon to a better swordsman,
he did not remember what he had said
when drunk with wine; for, himself he
durst not risk his life beneath the warring
waves and do a hero's deeds; there he lost
the glory, the fame of valor. It was not
so with the other when he had armed him
for the fight.
XXII
BEOWULF bids farewell to Hrothgar and plunges
into the mere. The monster seizes upon him.
They fight.
THEN spoke Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow:
" Remember, thou great son of Healf dene,
wise chieftain, gracious friend of men, now
that I am ready for this exploit, what we
two spoke of aforetime; that, if I must
needs lose my life for thee, thou wouldst
ever be as a father to me when I was gone
hence. Guard thou my thanes, my own
comrades, if the fight take me, and do
thou also send unto Hygelac the treasures
that thou gavest me, beloved Hrothgar.
Then, when the son of Hrethel, lord of
the Geats, shall look upon that treasure,
he may behold and see by the gold that I
found a bountiful benefactor, and en-
joyed these gifts while I might. And do
thou let Unferth, that far-famed man,
have the old heirloom, the wondrous wavy
sword of tempered blade. I will win glory
with Hrunting, or death shall take me."
After these words the lord of the Weder-
Geats boldly made haste; he would await
no answer, but the surging waters swal-
lowed up the warrior. It was the space of
a day ere he got sight of the bottom.
Soon the blood-thirsty creature, she who
had lived for a hundred seasons, grim and
greedy, in the waters' flow, found that one
was there from above seeking out the
abode of monsters. She seized upon the
warrior and clutched him with her horrid
claws; nevertheless she did no harm to his
sound body, for the ringed armor girt him
round about, so that she could not pierce
the byrnie, the linked coat of mail, with
her hateful fingers. Then the mere-wolf,
when she came to the bottom, bore the
ring-prince to her dwelling, so that he
could nowise wield his weapons, brave
though he was; for many monsters came
at him, many a sea-beast with awful tusks
broke his battle-sark, — the evil creatures
pressed him hard.
Then the hero saw that he was in some
dreadful hall, where the water could not
harm him a whit; the swift clutch of the
current could not touch him, because of the
roofed hall. He saw a fire-light, a gleam-
ing flame brightly shining. Then the hero
got sight of the mighty mere-woman — the
she-wolf of the deep. He made at her
fiercely with his war-sword. His hand
did not refuse the blow, so that the ringed
blade sang out a greedy war-song on her
head. But the stranger found that the
gleaming sword would make no wound,
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
would do no harm to her life; so the blade
failed the prince in his need. It had afore-
time endured many a hard fight, had often
cleft the helmet and the byrnie of the
doomed; this was the first time that the
precious treasure ever failed of its glory.
Yet the kinsman of Hygelac, heedful of
great deeds, was steadfast of purpose, not
faltering in courage. Then the angry
warrior threw from him the carved sword,
strong and steel-edged, studded with
jewels, and it lay upon the ground. He
trusted to his strength, to the mighty grip
of his hand. So must a brave man do
when he thinketh to win lasting praise; —
he taketh no thought for his life.
Then the lord of the War-Geats, shrink-
ing not from the fight, seized Grendel's
mother by the shoulder, and full of wrath,
the valiant in battle threw his deadly foe
so that she fell to the floor. Speedily she
paid him his reward again with fierce
grapplings and clutched at him, and being
exhausted, he stumbled and fell, he, — the
champion, strongest of warriors. Then
she leaped and sat upon him, and drew
her dagger, broad and brown-edged, to
avenge her son, her only offspring. But
on his shoulder lay his woven coat of mail;
it saved his life, barring the entrance
against point and blade. Thus the son of
Ecgtheow, the chief of the Geats, would
have perished 'neath the sea-bottom, had
not his battle-byrnie, his hard war-corslet,
been of aid to him, and Holy God, the
wise Lord, brought victory to pass, the
King of heaven easily adjudging it aright.
Thereafter he stood up again.
XXIII
BEOWULF lays hold upon a giant sword and slays
the evil beast. He finds Grendel's dead body
and cuts off the head, an:i swims up to his
thanes upon the shore. They go back to
Heorot.
THEN he saw among the armor a vic-
torious blade, an old sword of the giant-
age, keen-edged, the glory of warriors;
it was the choicest of weapons, — save that
it was larger than any other man was able
to carry into battle, — good, and splendidly
wrought, for it was the work of the giants.
And the warrior of the Scyldings seized
the belted hilt; savage and angry, he drew
forth the ring-sword, and, hopeless of life,
smote so fiercely that the hard sword
caught her by the neck, breaking the ring-
bones; the blade drove right through
her doomed body, and she sank upon the
floor. The sword was bloody; the hero
exulted in his deed.
The flame burst forth; light filled the
place, even as when the candle of heaven
is shining brightly from the sky. He
gazed about the place and turned him to
the wall; the thane of Hygelac, angry and
resolute, lifted the great weapon by the
hilt. The blade was not worthless to the
warrior, for he wished to repay Grendel
straightway for the many attacks which he
had made upon the West-Danes, — oftener
far than once, — what time he slew Hroth-
gar's hearth-companions in their slumber
and devoured fifteen of the sleeping Danes
and carried off as many more, a horrid
prey. The fierce warrior had given him
his reward, insomuch that he now saw
Grendel lying lifeless in his resting-place,
spent with his fight, so deadly had the
combat been for him in Heorot. The
body bounded far when it suffered a blow
after death, a mighty sword-stroke. Thus
he smote off the head.
Soon the prudent men who were watch-
ing the mere with Hrothgar saw that the
surging waves were all troubled, and the
water mingled with blood. The old men,
white-haired, talked together of the hero,
how they thought that the prince would
never come again to their great lord, exult-
ant in victory; for many believed that the
sea-wolf had rent him in pieces.
Then came the ninth hour of the day.
The bold Scyldings left the cliff, the boun-
teous friend of men departed to his home.
But the strangers sat there, sick at heart,
and gazed upon the mere; they longed but
did not ever think to see their own dear
lord again.
Meanwhile the sword, that war-blade,
being drenched with blood, began to waste
away in icicles of steel; it melted won-
drously away, like ice when the Father
EPIC AND ROMANCE
looseneth the frost, unwindeth the ropes
that bind the waves; He who ruleth the
times and seasons, He is a God of right-
eousness. The lord of the Weder-Geats took
no treasure from that hall, although he saw
much there, none save the head, and the
hilt bright with gold; the blade had mel-
ted, the graven sword had burned away,
so hot had been the blood, so venomous
the strange spirit that had perished there.
Soon he was swimming off, he who had
survived the onset of his foes; he dived up
through the water. The surging waves
were cleansed, the wide expanse where that
strange spirit had laid down her life and
the fleeting days of this world.
And the defence of seamen came to land,
stoutly swimming; he rejoiced in his sea-
spoil, the great burden that he bore with
him. And his valiant band of thanes
went unto him, giving thanks to God; they
rejoiced in their chief, for that they could
see him safe and sound. Then they
quickly loosed helm and byrnie from the
valiant man. The mere grew calm, but
the water 'neath the clouds was discolored
with the gore of battle.
They set forth along the foot-path glad
at heart; the men, kingly bold, measured
the earth-ways, the well-known roads.
They bore away the head from the sea-
cliff, — a hard task for all those men, great-
hearted as they were; four of them must
needs bear with toil that head of Grendel
upon a spear to the gold-hall. And forth-
with the fourteen Geats, bold and warlike,
came to the hall, and their brave lord in
their midst trod the meadows. And the
chief of the thanes, the valiant man
crowned with glory, the warrior brave in
battle, went in to greet Hrothgar. And
Grendel's head was borne by the hair
into the hall where the men were drinking,
— an awful sight for the heroes and the
lady too. The people gazed upon that
wondrous spectacle.
THE SONG OF ROLAND
The heroic tale of the rearguard action of Roland, Oliver, and their following, against the Saracen
hordes in the pass of Roncesvalles, the blowing of Roland's mighty horn the sound of which penetrated to
the host of Charlemagne on the other side of the mountains, the death of the Paladins, and the vengeance
of their master, grew out of legendary stories, or sagas, of the early struggles by the Frankish peoples
against the onrush of the Moors from the south which finally saved Europe from Mahommedan domina-
tion. This is the heroic background of the history of the nation of France. It is interesting to note that
at the Battle of Hastings, in 1066, Taillefer, the Norman minstrel, marched ahead of the invading army
singing the lines of this poem as a kind of defiance of the Anglo-Saxon host. On another occasion, dur-
ing the dark days of the siege of Paris in 1871, an attempt was made to revive in the hearts of the de-
fenders of the city the martial strains of their national epic as a means of patriotic endurance to the end.
The translation has been prepared by Percy Hazen Houston.
THE DEATH OF THE PEERS AT
RONCESVALLES
OLIVER feeling that his wound is mortal,
hasteneth the more to vengeance. Full
knightly he bears himself in the great press,
shivering lances and crushing shields, and
he severeth shoulders and arms and feet.
Vull well might he who beholdeth now
now he smote down the Saracen foe, leav-
ing body piled upon body, recall great
deeds of prowess. Nor forgetteth he the
cry of Charles, "Montjoie," and he
giveth it full loud and clear. Then saith
he unto Roland, his friend and peer,
"Sir comrade, ride thou close by, for full
well I wot that to our great dolor shall we
be divided."
Then Roland looketh upon Oliver full
well in the face. Pale he is and ghastly,
discolored and bloodless, and the bright
blood floweth from his corslet gushing to
the earth. " O God ! " cried he. " I know
what will come to pass, Sir comrade, for
thy valiance hath come to woe, and never
more shall thy peer be upon this earth.
Oh, sweet France, how hast thou been
overcome, and great loss from this will
come unto the Emperor." And when he
ceased, he swooned upon his horse.
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Now Roland has swooned upon his
horse, and Oliver draweth so nigh unto
death that nor here nor there, far nor near,
knoweth he a mortal man from another,
and when his comrade presseth close unto
him, with great force smiteth he his helmet
of gold, so that he cleaveth it to the nasal,
but touching not the head. At such a
blow Roland looketh up full well amazed
and asketh with great gentleness, "Sir
comrade, hast thou done this knowingly?
For wottest thou not I am Roland whom
thou lovest full well and in no way hast
thou a quarrel with me?" Then saith
Oliver, "Full well I wot it is thee I hear
, speak, but I see thee not. God the Lord
seeth thee. Was it indeed thee I smote?
I pray thy pardon!" And Roland made
reply: "No hurt has befallen me and I
forgive thee here and before God." At
this word the one to the other bent with
love, and in this wise made they their
farewell.
Now Oliver felt that death drew nigh
unto him, his eyes turned within his head,
nor had he sight nor hearing any more.
He dismounted from his horse and found
for his head a pillow upon the soft earth.
Aloud he uttered his mea culpa, the
while he held both hands joined together
up to heaven and prayed God that he
receive him into Paradise; nor failed he to
call benedictions upon Charles and France
and his comrade Roland first before all
men. Then sank his body, his head bent
low, and he lay stretched out on the
ground. Dead was he, the Count, and
there was an end to his stay among mortal
men. Full sore did Roland weep and
make great moan for the baron, and never
had man been so dolorous upon this earth.
When Count Roland saw his friend
how that he lay stretched at length and his
face to the ground, full tenderly did he
make moan: "Sir comrade, thy strength
hath brought thee woe! Together have
we been many long years and days, and
well I wot that never hast thou wronged
me, nor have I in any way betrayed thee.
Since thou art dead, woe is it that I live."
At this word he swooned upon his horse
whom men call Veillantif, nor might fall
wherever he might turn so fast was he held
by his stirrups of gold.
Then it befell when Roland was re-
stored from his swoon and his senses had
returned unto him, he was full well aware
of the ruin on all sides. Dead are the
Franks; perished are they all save the
Archbishop and Walter del Hum only,
who had returned from the mountain
where he gave battle to the hosts of Spain,
and where the heathen won and his men
all were overcome. To the valley he came
whether he would or no and then called
he unto Roland that he would seek his aid:
"Oh! gentle Count, brave knight, where
art thou? Never know I fear when thou
art nigh. I am Walter, the same who
vanquished Maelgut nephew of Droon,
the ancient and white of hair. I was wont
to follow thee in deeds of chivalry. Now
my lance is shivered and my shield pierced,
and my coat of mail is battered and
hacked and in my body are eight thrusts
of spear. Full well I wot that I shall die,
but dearly have I sold my life." Then
did Roland become aware of the knight,
and spurring his steed he came toward
him.
Of great sorrow was Roland and full
of anger, so that in the thick of the fray he
began to slay, and of those of Spain twenty
did he smite down, and Walter six, and
the Archbishop to the number of five.
Then said the heathen: "Fearful and
fell are these men. Heed ye well, lords,
that they make not their escape and alive !
Fell is he who meeteth them not and
recreant he who letteth them escape!
Then did the hue and cry begin again so
that from all sides came they back into
the fray.
A most noble warrior was Count Ro-
land, Walter del Hum a valiant cavalier,
and proved and well tried was the Arch-
bishop, and never would one leave the
other. Together in the great press do
they smite down the Paynims. The
Saracens to the number of a thousand
leapt from their steeds, while there were
still forty thousand in their saddles; yet
truly they dared not approach too near
but hurled their lances and their swords
EPIC AND ROMANCE
73
and their darts and sharp javelins. At
the first onset slew they Walter, pierced
the Archbishop's helm and brake hauberk
and wounded his head, so that he was rent
in the body by four lances. Great pity
it was that the Archbishop should fall.
When Turpin of Rheims felt himself
smitten to earth and his body pierced by
four lances, swiftly uprose the baron.
And now when Roland saw him, he would
go to his aid, but he cried: "Not yet am I
overcome; let vassals yield only with
life." Then drew he Almace, his sword of
steel, and in the thick of the press he lay
about him more than a thousand strokes.
In sooth it was said by Charles the Em-
peror that he spared none and there
around him he found bodies to the number
of four hundred, some wounded and some
struck down and lying on the plain, some
whose heads had been severed from their
bodies. So saith the geste and Giles, he
who was on the field, the same for whom
God worked miracles: and in the cell at
Laon wrote he the manuscript, and he
who wots not this wots nothing at all.
Count Roland fought full nobly nor did
he heed his body burning and bathed in
sweat and in his head were great pain and
torture since when he first sounded his
horn and his temple burst. But of
Charles's coming was he fain to know and
he drew his horn of ivory and fully he
sounded it. The Emperor stopped full
short and listened: "Lords," quoth he,
"it goeth full sore. Full hardly shall
Roland, my nephew, escape death; I
hear his horn as that of a dying man. Let
him who would reach the field ride fast,
and sound your trumpet everywhere
throughout the host." Sixty thousand
horns resounded on high and echoed in the
hills and rebounded in the valleys; so that
the Paynims heard it; it is no jest, and one
saith to another, " Charles is at hand."
Then quoth the heathen: "The Em-
peror cometh, wherefore the men of France
sound their trumpets, and if Charles come,
no hope will there be left unto us; yet
indeed if Roland live, we must fight again
and Spain our country have we lost."
Four hundred do battle together, and the
bravest in the field, and full fierce and
terrible they press upon Roland that he
feels it greater than he can endure.
Now when Count Roland saw that they
drew near, such strength and might came
unto him that yield would he not while
breath remained in his body. He sat
upon his horse whom men call Veillantif
and urged him well with spurs of fine gold
so that they rode together upon the
heathen host, and the Archbishop Turpin
rode at his side. Said one to the other,
"Save thyself, friend. The trumpets of
France have we heard, and Charles the
mighty monarch approacheth."
Now Count Roland had never loved
coward nor the proud of spirit nor evil of
heart nor knight who had not proved
himself true vassal; and upon Archbishop
Turpin he cried: " Sir, on foot art thou, and
I mounted on horseback, and for thy love
therefore will I dismount and together
will we share good and ill, nor will I leave
thee for any living man. Thus will we
return their assault and shall no sword
smite better than Durendal." "Base
is he," quoth the Archbishop, "who
faileth to smite, for that Charles cometh
to avenge us so well." And the heathen
cried: "So were we born to ill. Fearful
is this day that has dawned, for that we
have lost our lords and peers, and Charles
the great baron cometh with his mighty
host. We hear the trumpets of the host
of France, and full loud is the cry of
'Montjoie.' So great is the might of
Roland that he cannot be vanquished by
any man; therefore let us fling our mis-
siles against him and fall back." Where-
upon they hurled their darts and their
spears and feathered missiles. Roland's
buckler was battered and pierced ind his
mail ripped and broken, yet did they not
enter into his body. Thirty times did
they pierce Veillantif, and he fell dead
from under the Count. Then did the
Paynims flee and leave him, and Count
Roland remained on foot alone.
And the Paynims fled in great rage and
fear, and toward Spain returned they
as they had come. Not now could Count
Roland pursue, for that he had lost his
74
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
steed Veillantif, and whether he would or
no he had fallen on his feet. Then went
he to see if perchance he might aid the
Archbishop. He unlaced his helmet of
gold from his head, and undid the white
corslet over his breast and into strips
tore his undergarment that he might
staunch the great wounds of the Arch-
bishop. Against his heart he held him
embraced and laid him full tenderly upon
the green grass, and thus gently spake
unto him: "Ah! gentle sir, let me now
take farewell; our comrades whom we
loved so greatly have gone to their death,
yet it behooves us not that we should
leave them. I fain would seek them that
I may lay them before thee in seeming
fashion." Quoth the Archbishop: "Go
and return betimes as the field is thine
and mine, thanks be to God."
And so Roland turned away and alone
went he over the field, over valley and
hill did he search. Gerin found he and
Gerier that was his comrade in arms, and
Berangier and Otho, and Anseis and
Samson, and he found Gerard-the-Old
of Rousillon. One by one he bore the
barons and laid them before the Arch-
bishop, and in a row before his knees he
put them. The Archbishop could not but
weep as he raised his hand in benediction.
Then said he: "Alas for you, my lord!
And may God the glorious receive you
into his mercy! In Paradise may you
repose on blessed flowers! My own death
cometh and it giveth me great anguish
that I may never see my Emperor more."
Once again did Roland return that he
might search the field. Oliver his com-
rade he found and to his heart he pressed
him. With what strength there yet re-
mained to him he bore him to the Arch-
bishop; upon a buckler he laid him beside
the rest, and the Archbishop assoiled and
blessed them, and his grief waxed strong
and he had great pity. And then said
Roland: "Oliver, fair comrade, son wert
thou to the noble Duke Renier, he who
held the marches of Genoa and Rivier;
and there was no better cavalier for the
breaking of spears or piercing of shields
or for the smiting or the putting to flight
of the proud or for the giving of counsel
to the good."
When Count Roland saw his peers
and Oliver whom he so loved lying dead,
he was filled with great dolor and his face
was discolored from much weeping; and
so great was his grief that no longer was
he able to stand upon his feet, whether
he would or no he fell to the ground in a
swoon. "Alas for thee, baron," cried the
Archbishop.
When the Archbishop saw how that
Roland had swooned, he felt the greatest
dolor that ever he had felt before. Then
did he extend his hand and grasp the horn
that was of ivory. In the valley was a
spring, and he would fain go thither that
he might bring water unto Roland; and
with a great effort was he able to rise
and set off full slow and falteringly, but
such weakness came upon him that he
could go no farther. So much was the
blood that he had lost that no strength
had he left; wherefore when he had gone
but the distance of a rood his heart failed
him, so that he fell with his face to the
ground and mortal anguish seized upon
him.
Count Roland, when he had regained
his senses, with great effort raised himself
and looked about him; upon the green
grass beyond his companions saw he the
noble baron, the Archbishop, whom God
ordained in his name, sink upon the earth.
He looked up to Heaven, extended his
two hands, and uttered his mea culpa and
prayed God that he would indeed grant
him Paradise. Turpin died and in the
service of Charles, and wit ye well that
both in battles and by fair sermons did he
never cease to do battle with the heathen.
God grant him his benediction !
Count Roland saw the Archbishop upon
the ground and that his bowels burst
from his body and his brains gushed from
his forehead. Upon his breast did Roland
cross his white hands and then, according
to the custom of his country, full pitifully
did he make moan: "Ah! gentle lord,
knight of a noble race, to the glorious
King of Heaven do I recommend thee to-
day, and well I wot that never more will
EPIC AND ROMANCE
75
man serve Him as thou hast served Him
nor more willingly. Not since the time
of the Apostles hath there been such a
prophet to uphold the law of the Chris-
tians and to draw men unto it. Hence-
forth may thy soul wot not of grief or
torment and may the Gate of Paradise
be opened unto it.
Roland felt that his death drew nigh;
his brain oozed forth by either ear; there-
fore did he pray for his peers that God
might call them, and for himself did he
implore the angel Gabriel. That he might
be reproached for naught, did he with
one hand grasp the horn of ivory and
with the other Durendal his sword. As
far as the shot of a crossbow in fallow
land did he advance toward Spain. There
were four steps of marble near unto the
crest of a hillock, under two fair trees, and
there it is that he fell back upon the grass
as his death approached.
Now where Count Roland had swooned
the mountains were high and full tall the
trees, and there were four steps of glisten-
ing marble. And in the meanwhile a
Saracen had been watching him, and he
it was who feigned death and lay among
the others. He had smeared his body
with blood and his visage. Handsome
was he and full strong and of great courage
so that in his pride he would do a deed of
mortal folly, and he rose and laid his hand
upon the body and the arms of Roland and
cried: "The nephew of Charles is van-
quished and this sword will I carry into
Arabia." Forthwith he seized it and
then lay hold of the beard of Roland.
Then was the Count roused by the pain so
that his senses returned unto him.
Now no sooner had Roland felt that
his sword had been taken from him than
he opened his eyes and spake: "Well I
wot that thou art not of ours." With the
horn of ivory which he held and which he
would never let go, did he smite the foe
full upon the helmet. The horn, adorned
with precious gems and gold, crushed
through steel and head and bones, and
made the eyes that they fell from his head,
and threw him back dead at Roland's fret.
Then cried he: " Vile man, who hath made
thee so bold that thou wouldst lay hand
upon me, whether right or no? No man
shall hear it said but shall deem thee mad.
Now is my horn of ivory broken, and the
crystal and the gold have fallen from it."
Roland felt that death pressed closely
upon him and he rose to his feet as quickly
as he might; his countenance had lost
all its color. He grasped his sword
Durendal all unsheathed, and seeing a
brown rock before him, ten blows did he
smite it, so great was his anger and
chagrin. Then did the steel grate but
it broke not nor splintered. "Blessed
Mary," cried the Count, "aid me now!
Ah! Durendal, my good sword, alack
for thee! For now I die and no more
shall have to do with thee; with thee have
I won many battles and conquered broad
lands the which are held by Charles of the
white beard! Whilst I live shalt thou not
be borne away, that thou mayest never
belong to him who would flee before an-
other. How brave a warrior hath borne
thee for many a long day! Never more1
will there be another and such as he in
France, the blessed land."
Roland struck upon the hard rock, and
then did the steel grate but brake not nor
splintered. Now when the count saw
that he might not break his sword, did he
make moan unto himself: "Ah, Durendal,
how clear and white thou art, how thou
dost flash and glisten in the sun ! Charles
was in Maurienne valley, and from Heaven
God bade him by his angel that he give
thee unto a Count and chieftain of his
host, and then did the gentle king, the
most noble warrior, gird it on me. With
thee did I conquer Anjou and Brittany,
Poitou and Maine, with thee I gained
Normandy the free, Provence and Aqui-
taine, and Lombardy and the whole of
Romagna; with thee I overcame Bavaria
and all of Flanders and Bulgaria and Po-
land, Constantinople of which he holds the
fealty, and Saxony, of which he is sov-
ereign; for him did I conquer Scotland and
Ireland and England, the which he holds
as his own domain. How many countries,
how many lands, have I won, that Charles
of the white beard might hold them in fee!
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
For this sword do I suffer sore and am in
great torment; sooner would I die than
leave it to the heathen host. Lord God,
our Father, let not this shame come unto
France!"
Now Roland feels that death is upon
him and that it descends from his head
unto his heart, and he couches himself close
by a pine tree and upon the green grass,
and his face is upon the ground. Beneath
him does he place his horn of ivory and
his sword, and turns toward Spain, as
if he would fain have it that Charlemagne
and all his knights might tell how that
the noble count died as seeming a con-
queror. His sins doth he confess once
and again, and that they might be re-
quited doth he offer his glove unto God.
Roland f eeleth that his hour is come, and
ha lieth on the crest of a hill and turneth
toward Spain. With one hand doth he
beat his heart. "God, I invoke thy
power and my sins do I confess, great
and small, which I have committed from
the hour in which I was born unto this
day when it is that death overtakes me."
Then doth he stretch out unto God his
right glove, and the angel of Heaven de-
scendeth unto him.
Count Roland lay under a pine tree and
his face was turned toward Spain. Many
things would he fain recall: how many
lands he had won to the honor of sweet
France, the men of his lineage, Charle-
magne his lord, who had reared him hi his
hall, and the men of France of whom he
had great love. At this he could not but
weep and sigh, but forget himself did he
not, and he composed himself and prayed
forgiveness of God. " God, the truth, thou
who liest not, who hast raised Lazarus
from the dead, who hast preserved Daniel
from the lions, save my soul from all the
perils brought unto it by the sins which I
have committed in this my life!" His
right glove he offered unto God, and the
Holy Saint Gabriel took it from his hand.
His head fell upon his arm, and, his hands
joined, passed he unto his end. Then did
God send unto him his cherubim and Saint
Michael of the Peril of the Sea, and Saint
Gabriel came with them also, and together
did they bear the soul of the Count into
Paradise.
THE NIBELUNGENLIED*
This ancient German epic, composed in its present form probably early in the twelfth century, repre-
sents the accumulation of the rich store of legends out of the dim mythological past which accompanied
the vast Germanic migrations that finally overwhelmed the Empire of Rome.
The poem falls into two parts. The first relates the coming of the young warrior Siegfried with the
magic hoard of the Nibelungs to the land of Burgundy where he wins the lovely Kriemhild to wife.
But before the wedding he aids his friend Gunther to win the warrior-queen Brunhild, queen of Iceland,
by surpassing her in three games. By wearing an invisible cloak he is able to come to the help of his
friend and overcomes the warlike queen, taking from her her ring and girdle, thus rendering her power-
less before her lord. Later, just before the celebration of the double wedding, the two queens engage in
a quarrel over a question of precedence, and Kriemhild boasts her possession of the magic ring and girdle.
Brunhild, maddened, induces Hagen to kill Siegfried after she has learned of one vulnerable spot on the
hero's body where a linden leaf had fallen as he was bathing in the blood of a dragon.
The second part, which may be entitled Kriemhild 's revenge, is, unlike the first part of the story,
sombre and tragic. For thirteen years the grief-stricken queen mourns her lord. Then for thirteen
years she lives as the wife of Attila, king of Hungary. At the end of that time she invites the Burgun-
dians (who are now called Nibelungs) to a great festival at her court. In spite of forebodings they go,
never to return. In a dramatic conclusion, the whole army is slain, their bodies thrown out of the
window, and the hall set on fire. Kriemhild herself cuts off Hagen's head with Siegfried's sword Balming
and in turn is slain by one of the Hungarians. Thus perish the whole race of Nibelungs, and with them
is lost forever the secret of their great hoard.
*These selections are from "The Fall of the Niebelungs," translated by Margaret Armour; published in the Everyman's
Library by Messrs. E. P. Button and Company, New York,
EPIC AND ROMANCE
77
It is interesting to note that this great primitive epic, like the Song of Roland, served to revive the
spirits of a people at a time of national crisis. This time it was the revolt of liberal Germans from the
despotism of Napoleon, inaugurating the liberal movement in Germany which was destined to be crushed
by the Prussian king when he rejected the resolutions of the Diet of Frankfort in 1848.
The most notable modern treatment of this story is to be found in Richard Wagner's operatic cycle,
"The Ring of the Nibelungs."
EPISODES OF SIEGFRIED AND KRIEMHILD
KRIEMHILD
AND lo! the fair one appeared, like the
dawn from out the dark clouds. And he
that had borne her so long in his heart
was no more aweary, for the beloved one,
his sweet lady, stood before him in her
beauty. Bright jewels sparkled on her
garments, and bright was the rose-red of
her hue, and all they that saw her pro-
claimed her peerless among maidens.
As the moon excelleth in light the stars
shining clear from the clouds, so stood she,
fair before the other women, and the hearts
of the warriors were uplifted. The cham-
berlains made way for her through them
that pressed in to behold her. And Sieg-
fried joyed, and sorrowed likewise, for he
said in his heart, "How should I woo such
as thee? Surely it was a vain dream; yet
I were liefer dead than a stranger to thee."
Thinking thus he waxed oft white and
red; yea, graceful and proud stood the
son of Sieglind, goodliest of heroes to be-
hold, as he were drawn on parchment
by the skill of a cunning master. And the
knights fell back as the escort commanded,
and made way for the high-hearted women,
and gazed on them with glad eyes. Many
a dame of high degree was there.
Said bold Sir Gernot, the Burgundian,
then, "Gunther, dear brother, unto the'
gentle knight, that hath done thee service,
show honor now before thy lieges. Of this
counsel I shall never shame me. Bid
Siegfried go before my sister, that the
maiden greet him. Let her, that never
greeted knight, go toward him. For this
shall advantage us, and we shall win the
good warrior for ours."
Then Gunther's kinsmen went to the
knight of the Netherland, and said to him,
"The king bids thee to the court that his
sister may greet thee, for he would do
thee honor."
It rejoiced Siegfried that he was to
look upon Uta's fair child, and he forgot
his sorrow.
She greeted him mild and maidenly, and
her color was kindled when she saw before
her the high-minded man, and she said,
"Welcome, Sir Siegfried, noble knight and
good." His courage rose at her words,
and graceful, as beseemed a knight, he
bowed himself before her and thanked her.
And love that is mighty constrained them,
and they yearned with their eyes in secret.
I know not whether, from his great love,
the youth pressed her white hand, but
two love-desirous hearts, I trow, had else
done amiss.
Nevermore, in summer or in May, bore
Siegfried in his heart such high joy, as
when he went by the side of her whom he
coveted for his dear one. And many a
knight thought, "Had it been my hap
to walk with her, as I have seen him do,
or to lie by her side, certes, I had suffered
it gladly! Yet never, truly, hath warrior
served better to win a queen." From
what land soever the guests came, they
were ware only of these two. And she
was bidden kiss the hero. He had never
had like joy before hi this world.
Said the King of Denmark then, "By
reason of this high greeting many good men
lie low, slain by the hand of Siegfried, the
which hath been proven to my cost. God
grant he return not to Denmark!"
Then they ordered to make way for fair
Kriemhild. Valiant knights in stately
array escorted her to the minster, where
she was parted from Siegfried. She went
thither followed by her maidens; and so
rich was her apparel that the other women,
for all their striving, were as naught beside
her, for to glad the eyes of heroes she was
born.
Scarce could Siegfried tarry till they had
sung mass, he yearned so to thank her
for his gladness, and that she whom he
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
bore in his heart had inclined her desire
toward him, even as his was to her, which
was meet.
Now when Kriemhild was come forth
to the front of the minster, they bade the
warrior go to her again, and the damsel
began to thank him, that before all others
he had done valiantly. And she said,
"Now, God requite thee, Sir Siegfried,
for they tell me thou hast won praise and
honor from all knights."
He looked on the maid right sweetly,
and he said, "I will not cease to serve
them. Never, while I live, will I lay
head on pillow, till I have brought their
desire to pass. For love of thee, dear
lady, I will do this."
And every day of twelve, in the sight
of all the people, the youth walked by
the side of the maiden as she went to the
court. So they showed their love to the
knight.
HOW THE QUEENS QUARRELLED
ONE day, before vespers, there arose
in the court of the castle a mighty din of
knights that tilted for pastime, and the
folk ran to see them.
The queens sat together there, thinking
each on a doughty warrior. Then said
fair Kriemhild, "I have a husband of such
might that all these lands might well
be bis."
But Brunhild answered, "How so? If
there lived none other save thou and he,
our kingdom might haply be his, but
while Gunther is alive it could never be."
But Kriemhild said, "See him there.
How he surpasseth the other knights, as
the bright moon the stars! My heart
is uplifted with cause."
Whereupon Brunhild answered, "How-
so valiant thy husband, comely and fair,
thy brother Gunther excelleth him, for
know that he is the first among kings."
But Kriemhild said, "My praise was
not idle; for worshipful is my husband in
many things. Trow it, Brunhild. He is,
at the least, thy husband's equal."
"Mistake me not hi thine anger, Kriem-
hild. Neither is my word idle; for they
both said, when I saw them first, and the
king vanquished me in the sports, and on
knightly wise won my love, that Siegfried
was his man. Wherefore I hold him for a
vassal, since I heard him say it."
Then Kriemhild cried, "Evil were my
lot if that were true. How had my
brothers given me to a vassal to wife?
Prithee, of thy courtesy, cease from such
discourse."
"That will I not," answered Brunhild.
"Thereby should I lose many knights
that, with him, owe us homage."
Whereat fair Kriemhild waxed very
wroth. "Lose them thou must, then, for
any service he will do thee. He is nobler
even than Gunther, my noble brother.
Wherefore, spare me thy foolish words.
I wonder, since he is thy vassal, and thou
art so much mightier than we, that for so
long time he hath failed to pay tribute.
Of a truth thine arrogancy irketh me."
"Thou vauntest thyself too high," cried
the queen; "I would see now whether thy
body be holden in like honor with mine."
Both the women were angry.
Kriemhild answered, "That shalt thou
see straightway. Since thou hast called
Siegfried thy vassal, the knights of both
kings shall see this day whether I dare
enter the minster before thee, the queen.
For I would have thee know that I am
noble and free, and that my husband is
of more worship than thine. Nor will I
be chidden by thee. To-day thou shalt
see thy vassals go at court before the
Burgundian knights, and me more honored
than any queen that ever wore a crown."
Fierce was the wrath of the women.
"If thou art no vassal," said Brunhild,
" thou and thy women shall walk separate
from my train when we go to the minster."
And Kriemhild answered, "Be it so."
"Now adorn ye, my maidens," said
Siegfried's wife, "that I be not shamed.
If ye have rich apparel, show it this day.
She shall take back what her mouth hath
spoken.'*
She needed not to bid twice; they sought
out their richest vesture, and dames and
damsels were soon arrayed.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
79
Then the wife of the royal host went
forth with her attendants. Fair to heart's
desire were clad Kriemhild and the for<vy
and three maidens that she had brought
with her to the Rhine. Bright shone the
stuffs, woven in Araby, whereof their
robes were fashioned. And they came to
the minster, where Siegfried's knights
waited for them.
The folk marvelled much to see the
queens apart, and going not together as
afore. Many a warrior was to rue it.
Gunther's wife stood before the minster,
and the knights dallied in converse with
the women, till that Kriemhild came up
with her meiny. All that noble maidens
had ever worn was but as a wind to what
these had on. So rich was Kriemhild
that thirty king's wives together had not
been as gorgeous as she was. None could
deny, though they had wished it, that the
apparel Kriemhild's maidens wore that
day was the richest they had ever seen.
Kriemhild did this on purpose to anger
Brunhild.
So they met before the minster. And
Brunhild, with deadly spite, cried out to
Kriemhild to stand still. "Before the
queen shall no vassal go."
Out then spake Kriemhild, for she was
wroth. "Better hadst thou held thy
peace. Thou hast shamed thine own
body. How should the leman of a vassal
become a king's wife?"
"Whom namest thou leman?" cried the
queen.
"Even thee," answered Kriemhild.
" For it was Siegfried my husband, and not
my brother, that won thee first. Where
were thy senses? It was surely ill done
to favor a vassal so. Reproaches from
thee are much amiss."
"Verily," cried Brunhild. "Gunther
shall hear of it."
" What is that to me? Thine arrogancy
hath deceived thee. Thou hast called
me thy vassal. Know now of a truth it
hath irked me, and I am thine enemy
evermore."
Then Brunhild began to weep, and
Kriemhild tarried not longer, but went
with her attendants into the minster
before the king's wife. There was deadly
hate, and bright eyes grew wet and dim.
Whether they prayed or sang, the ser-
vice seemed too long to Brunhild, for hrr
heart and her mind were troubled, the
which many a bold and good man paid
for afterward.
Brunhild stopped before the minster
with her women, for she thought, "Kriem-
hild, the foul-mouthed woman, shall tell
me further whereof she so loud accuseth
me. If he hath boasted of this thing, he
shall answer for it with his life."
Then Kriemhild with her knights came
forth, and Brunhild began, "Stop! thou
hast called me a wanton and shalt prove
it, for know that thy words irk me sore."
Said Kriemhild, "Let me pass. With
this gold that I have on my hand I can
prove it. Siegfried brought it when he
came from thee."
It was a heavy day for Brunhild. She
said, "That gold so precious was stolen
from me, and hath been hidden these
many years. Now I know who hath
taken it." Both the women were furious.
"I am no thief," cried Kriemhild.
"Hadst thou prized thine honor thou
hadst held thy peace, for, with this girdle
round my waist, I can prove my word, and
that Siegfried was verily thy leman."
She wore a girdle of silk of Nineveh, goodly
enow, and worked with precious stones.
When Brunhild saw it she started to
weep. And soon Gunther knew it, and
all his men, for the queen cried, "Bring
hither the King of Rhineland; I would
tell him how his sister hath mocked me,
and sayeth openly that I be Siegfried's
leman."
The king came with his warriors, and,
when he saw that his dear one wept, he
spake kindly, "What aileth thee, dear
wife?"
She answered, "Shamed must I stand,
for thy sister would part me from mine
honor? I make my plaint to thee. She
proclaimeth aloud that Siegfried hath had
me to his leman."
Gunther answered, "Evilly hath she
done."
"She weareth here a girdle that I have
So
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURP:
long lost, and my red gold. Woe is me
that ever I was born! If thou clearest
me not from this shame, I will never love
thee more."
Said Gunther, "Bid him hither, that he
confess whether he hath boasted of this,
or no."
They summoned Siegfried, who, when
he saw their anger and knew not the cause,
spake quickly, "Why weep these women?
Tell me straight; and wherefore am I
summoned?"
Whereto Gunther answered, "Right
vexed am I. Brunhild, my wife, telleth
me here that thou hast boasted thou wert
her leman. Kriemhild declareth this.
;Hast thou done it, 0 knight?"
Siegfried answered, "Not I. If she
hath said so, I will rest not till she repent
jit. I swear with a high oath, in the pres-
ence of all thy knights, that I said not this
thing."
The king of the Rhine made answer,
"So be it. If thou swear the oath here,
I will acquit thee of the falsehood."
Then the Burgundians stood round in a
ring, and Siegfried swore it with his hand;
whereupon the great king said, "Verily,
I hold thee guiltless, nor lay to thy charge
the word my sister imputeth to thee."
Said Siegfried further, "If she rejoice th
to have troubled thy fair wife, I am grieved
beyond measure." The knights glanced
at each other.
"Women must be taught to bridle their
tongues. Forbid proud speech to thy
wife: I will do the like to mine. Such
bitterness and pride are a shame."
Angry words have divided many women.
Brunhild made such dole, that Gunther's
men had pity on her. And Hagen of
Trony went to her and asked what ailed
her, for he found her weeping. She told
him the tale, and he sware straightway
that Kriemhild's husband should pay for
it, or never would Hagen be glad again.
While they talked together, Ortwin
and Gernot came up, and the warriors
counselled Siegfried's death. But when
Giselher, Uta's fair child, drew nigh and
heard them, he spake out with true heart,
"Alack, good knights, what would ye do?
How hath Siegfried deserved such hate
that he should lose his life? A woman
is lightly angered."
"Shall we rear bastards?" cried Hagen.
"That were small honor to good knights.
I will avenge on him the boast that he
hath made, or I will die."
But the king himself said, "Good, and
not evil, hath he done to us. Let him live.
Wherefore should I hate the knight? He
hath ever been true to me."
But Ortwin of Metz said, "His great
strength shall not avail him. Allow,
O Lord, that I challenge him to his
death." So, without cause, they banded
against him. Yet none had urged it
further, had not Hagen tempted Gunther
every day, saying, that if Siegfried lived
not, many kings' lands were subject to
him.
Whereat the warrior began to grieve.
Meanwhile they let the matter lie, and
returned to the tourney. Ha! what stark
spears they brake before Kriemhild,
atween the minster and the palace; but
Gunther's men were wroth.
Then said the king, "Give over this
deadly hate. For our weal and honor he
was born. Thereto the man is so won-
derly stark and grim, that, if he were
ware of this, none durst stand against
him."
"Not so," said Hagen. "Assure thee
on that score. For I will contrive secretly
that he pay for Brunhild's weeping.
Hagen is his foe evermore."
But said Gunther, "How meanest
thou?"
And Hagen answered, "On this wise.
Men that none here knoweth shall ride as
envoys into this land and declare war.
Whereupon thou wilt say before thy guests
that thou must to battle with thy liege-
men. When thou hast done this, he will
promise to help thee. Then he shall die,
after I have learnt a certain thing from his
wife."
Evilly the king followed Hagen, and
they plotted black treason against the
chosen knight, without any suspecting it.
So, through the quarrel of two women, died
many warriors.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
HOW SIEGFRIED WAS BETRAYED
ON THE fourth morning, thirty and two
men were seen riding to the court. They
brought word to Gunther that war was
declared against him. The women were
woeful when they heard this lie.
The envoys won leave to go in to the
king, and they said they were Ludger's
men, that Siegfried's hand had overcome
in battle and brought captive into Gun-
ther's land.
The king greeted them, and bade them
sit, but one of them said, "Let us stand,
till that we have declared the message
wherewith we are charged to thee. Know
that thou hast to thy foeman many a
mother's son. Ludger and Ludgast, whom
thou hast aforetime evilly entreated, ride
hither to make war against thee in this
land."
The king fell in a rage, as if he had known
naught thereof. Then they gave the
false messengers good lodging. How could
Siegfried or any other guess their treason,
whereby, or all was done, they themselves
perished?
The king went whispering up and down
with his friends. Hagen of Trony gave
him no peace. Many of the knights were
fain to let it drop, but Hagen would not
be turned from it.
On a day that Siegfried found them
whispering, he asked them, "Wherefore
are the king and his men so sorrowful?
If any hath done aught to their hurt, I will
stand by them to avenge it."
Gunther answered, "I grieve not with-
out cause. Ludgast and Ludger ride
hither to war against me in my land."
Then said the bold knight, "Siegfried's
arm will withstand them on such wise,
that ye shall all come off with honor. I
will do to these warriors even as I did afore-
time. Waste will be their lands and their
castles, or I be done. I pledge my head
thereto. Thou and thy men shall tarry
here at home, and I will ride forth with
my knights that I have with me. I serve
thee gladly, and will prove it. Doubt
not that thy foemen shall suffer scathe
at my hand."
"These be good words," answered the
king, as he were truly glad, and craftily
the false man bowed low.
Then said Siegfried further, "Have no
fear."
The knights of Burgundy made ready
for war, they and their squires, and dis-
sembled before Siegfried and his men.
Siegfried bade them of the Netherland
lose no time, and they sought out. their
harness.
Then spake stark Siegfried, "Tarry here
at home, Siegmund, my father. If God
prosper us, we shall return or long to the
Rhine. Meanwhile, be thou of good cheer
here by the king."
They made as if to depart, and bound on
the standard. Many of Gunther's knights
knew nothing of how the matter stood,
and a mighty host gathered round Sieg-
fried. They bound their helmets and
their coats of mail on to the horses and
stood ready. Then went Hagen of Trony
to Kriemhild, to take his leave of her, for
they would away.
"Well for me," said Kriemhild, "that
ever I won to husband a man that standeth
so true by his friends, as doth Siegfried
by my kinsmen. Right proud am I.
Bethink thee now, Hagen, dear friend,
how that in all things I am at thy service,
and have ever willed thee well. Requite
me through my husband, that I love, and
avenge not on him what I did to Brunhild.
Already it repenteth me sore. My body
hath smarted for it, that ever I troubled
her with my words. Siegfried, the good
knight, hath seen to that."
Whereto Hagen answered, "Ye will
shortly be at one again. But Kriemhild,
prithee tell me wherein I can serve thee
with Siegfried, thy husband, and I will
do it, for I love none better."
"I should fear naught for his life in
battle, but that he is foolhardy, and of too
proud a courage. Save for that, he were
safe enow."
Then said Hagen, "Lady, if thou fear-
est hurt for him in battle, tell me now by
what device I may hinder it, and I will
guard him afoot and on horse."
She answered, " Thou art my cousin, and
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
I thine. To thy faith I commend my dear
husband, that thou mayst watch and
keep him."
Then she told him what she had better
have left unsaid.
" My husband is stark and bold. When
that he slew the dragon on the mountain,
he bathed him in its blood; wherefore no
weapon can pierce him. Nevertheless,
when he rideth in battle, and spears fly
from the hands of heroes, I tremble lest I
lose him. Alack! for Siegfried's sake how
oft have I been heavy of my cheer! And
now, dear cousin, I will trust thee with the
secret, and tell thee, that thou mayst
prove thy faith, where my husband may
be wounded. For that I know thee honor-
able, I do this. When the hot blood flowed
from the wound of the dragon, and Sieg-
fried bathed therein, there fell atween
his shoulders the broad leaf of a lime tree.
There one might stab him, and thence is
my care and dole."
Then answered Hagen of Trony, " Sew,
with thine own hand, a small sign upon his
outer garment, that I may know where to
defend him when we stand in battle."
She did it to profit the knight, and
worked his doom thereby. She said,
"I will sew secretly, with fine silk, a little
cross upon his garment, and there, O
knight, shalt thou guard to me my hus-
band when ye ride in the thick of the
strife, and he withstandeth his foemen in
the fierce onset."
"That will I do, dear lady," answered
Hagen.
Kriemhild thought to serve Siegfried;
so was the hero betrayed.
Then Hagen took his leave and went
forth glad; and his king bade him say
what he had learned.
"If thou wouldst turn from the journey,
let us go hunting instead ; for I have learned
the secret, and have him in my hand.
Wilt thou contrive this?"
"That will I," said the king.
And the king's men rejoiced. Never
more, I ween, will knight do so foully as
did Hagen, when he brake his faith with
the queen.
The next morning Siegfried, with his
thousand knights, rode merrily forth; for
he thought to avenge his friends. And
Hagen rode nigh him, and spied at his
vesture. When he saw the mark, he sent
forward two of his men secretly, to ride
back to them with another message:
that Ludger bade tell the king his land
might remain at peace.
Loth was Siegfried to turn his rein or
he had done battle for his friends. Gun-
ther's vassals scarce held him back. Then
he rode to the king, that thanked him.
"Now, God reward thee, Siegfried, my
kinsman, that thou didst grant my prayer
so readily. Even so will I do by thee,
and that justly. I hold thee trustiest of
all my friends. Seeing we be quit of this
war, let us ride a hunting to the Odenwald
after the bear and the boar, as I have
often done."
Hagen, the false man, had counselled this.
"Let it be told to my guests straightway
that I will ride early. Whoso would hunt
with me, let him be ready betimes. But
if any would tarry behind for pastime
with the women, he shall do it, and please
me thereby."
Siegfried answered on courtly wise, "I
will hunt with thee gladly, and will ride to
the forest, if thou lend me a huntsman
and some brachs."
" Will one suffice? " asked Gunther. " I
will lend thee four that know the forest
well, and the tracks of the game, that
thou come not home empty-handed."
Then Siegfried rode to his wife.
Meanwhile Hagen had told the king
how he would trap the hero. Let all men
evermore avoid such foul treason. When
the false men had contrived his death,
they told all the others. Giselher and
Gernot went not hunting with the rest.
I know not for what grudge they warned
him not. But they paid dear for it.
HOW SIEGFRIED WAS SLAIN
GUNTHER and Hagen, the fierce warriors,
went hunting with false intent in the for-
est, to chase the boar, the bear, and the
wild bull, with their sharp spears. Wha*
fitter sport for brave men?
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Siegfried rode with them in kingly pomp.
They took with them good store of meats.
By a cool stream he lost his life, as Brun-
hild, King Gunther's wife, had devised it.
But or he set out, and when the hunting-
gear was laid ready on the sumpters that
they were to take across the Rhine, he
went to Kriemhild, that was right doleful
of her cheer. He kissed his lady on the
mouth. " God grant I may see thee safe
and well again, and thou me. Bide here
merry among thy kinsfolk, for I must
forth."
Then she thought on the secret she had
betrayed to Hagen, but durst not tell him.
The queen wept sore that ever she was
born, and made measureless dole.
She said, " Go not hunting. Last night
I dreamed an evil dream: how that two
wild boars chased thee over the heath;
and the flowers were red with blood.
Have pity on my tears, for I fear some
treachery. There be haply some offended,
that pursue us with deadly hate. Go not,
dear lord; in good faith I counsel it."
But he answered, "Dear love, I go but
for a few days. I know not any that
beareth me hate. Thy kinsmen will me
well, nor have I deserved otherwise at
their hand."
"Nay, Siegfried, I fear some mischance.
Last night I dreamed an evil dream: how
that two mountains fell on thee, and I
saw thee no more. If thou goest, thou
wilt grieve me bitterly."
But he caught his dear one in his arms
and kissed her close; then he took leave
of her and rode off.
She never saw him alive again.
They rode thence into a deep forest
to seek sport. The king had many bold
knights with him, and rich meats, that
they had need of for the journey. Sump-
ters passed laden before them over the
Rhine, carrying bread and wine, and
flesh and fish, and meats of all sorts, as
was fitting for a rich king.
The bold huntsmen encamped before the
green wood where they were to hunt, on
a broad meadow. Siegfried also was there,
which was told to the king. And they
set a watch round the camp.
Then said stark Siegfried, "Who will
into the forest and lead us to the game?"
"If we part or we begin the chase in
the wood," said Hagen, "we shall know
which is the best sportsman. Let us
divide the huntsmen and the hounds; then
let each ride alone as him listeth, and he
who hunteth the best shall be praised."
So they started without more ado.
But Siegfried said, "One hound that
hath been well trained for the chase will
suffice for me. There will be sport
enow!"
Then an old huntsman took a lime-
hound, and brought the company where
there was game in plenty. They hunted
down all the beasts they started, as good
sportsmen should.
Whatsoever the limehound started, the
hero of the Netherland slew with his hand.
His horse ran so swift that naught escaped
him; he won greater praise than any in
the chase. In all things he was right
manly. The first that he smote to the
death was a half-bred boar. Soon after,
he encountered a grim lion, that the lime-
hound started. This he shot with his
bow and a sharp arrow; the lion made
only three springs or he fell. Loud was
the praise of his comrades. Then he
killed, one after the other, a buffalo, an
elk, four stark ure-oxen, and a grim sheik.
His horse carried him so swiftly that noth-
ing outran him. Deer and hind escaped
him hot.
The limehound tracked a wild boar next
that began to flee. But Siegfried rode
up and barred the path, whereat the mon-
ster ran at the knight. He slew him with
his sword. Not so lightly had another
done it.
They leashed the limehound then, and
told the Burgundians how Siegfried had
prospered. Whereupon his huntsmen said,
"Prithee, leave something alive; thou
emptiest to us both mountain and forest."
And Siegfried laughed.
The noise of the chase was all round
them; hill and wood rang with shouting
arid the baying of dogs, for the huntsmen
had loosed twenty and four hounds.
Many a beast perished that day, for each
84
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
thought to win the prize of the chase.
But when stark Siegfried rode to the
tryst-fire, they saw that could not be.
The hunt was almost over. The sports-
men brought skins and game enow with
them to the camp. No lack of meat for
cooking was there, I ween.
Then the king bade tell the knights
that he would dine. And they blew a
blast on a horn, that told the king was
at the tryst-fire.
Said one of Siegfried's huntsmen, "I
heard the blast of a horn bidding us back
to the camp. I will answer it." And
they kept blowing to assemble the com-
pany.
Siegfried bade quit the wood. His
horse bare him smoothly, and the others
pricked fast behind. The noise roused
a grim bear, whereat the knight cried to
them that came after him, "Now for
sport! Slip the dog, for I see a bear that
shall with us to the tryst-fire. He cannot
escape us, if he ran ever so fast."
They slipped the limehound; off rushed
the bear. Siegfried thought to run him
down, but he came to a ravine, and could
not get to him; then the bear deemed him
safe. But the proud knight sprang from
his horse, and pursued him. The beast
had no shelter. It could not escape from
him, and was caught by his hand, and,
or it could wound him, he had bound it,
that it could neither scratch nor bite.
Then he tied it to his saddle, and, when
he had mounted up himself, he brought it
to the tryst-fire for pastime.
•How right proudly he rode to the camp-
ing ground! His boar-spear was mickle,
stark and broad. His sword hung down
to the spur, and his hunting-horn was
of ruddy gold. Of better hunting-gear I
never heard tell. His coat was black
samite, and 'his hat was goodly sable.
His quiver was richly laced, and covered
with a panther's hide for the sake of the
sweet smell. He bare, also, a bow that
none could draw but himself, unless with a
windlass. His cloak was a lynx-skin, pied
from head to foot, and embroidered over
with gold on both sides. Also Balmung
had he done on, whereof the edges were
so sharp that it clave every helmet it
touched. I ween the huntsman was merry
of his cheer. Yet, to tell you the whole,
I must say how his rich quiver was filled
with good arrows, gilt on the shaft, and
broad a hand's breadth or more. Swift
and sure was the death of him that he
smote therewith.
So the knight rode proudly from the
torest, and Gunther's men saw him coming,
and ran and held his horse.
When he had alighted, he loosed the
band from the paws and from the mouth
of the bear that he had bound to his
saddle.
So soon as they saw the bear, the dogs
began to bark. The animal tried to win
back to the wood, and all the folk fell in
great fear. Affrighted by the noise, it
ran through the kitchen. Nimbly started
the scullions from their place by the fire.
Pots were upset and the brands strewed
over all. Alack! the good meats that
tumbled into the ashes !
Then up sprang the princes and their
men. The bear began to growl, and the
king gave order to slip the hounds that
were on leash. I' faith, it had been a
merry day if it had ended so.
Hastily, with their bows and spears,
the warriors, swift of foot, chased the bear,
but there were so many dogs that none
durst shoot among them, and the forest
rang with the din. Then the bear fled
before the dogs, and none could keep pace
with him save Kriemhild's husband, that
ran up to him and pierced him dead with
his sword, and carried the carcase back
with him to the fire. They that saw it
said he was a mighty man.
Then they bade the sportsmen to the
table, and they sat down, a goodly com-
pany enow, on a fair meadow. Ha! what
dishes, meet for heroes, were set before
them. But the cup-bearers were tardy,
that should have brought the wine. Save
for that, knights were never better served.
If there had not been false-hearted men
among them, they had been without re-
proach. The doomed man had no sus-
picion that might have warned him, for
his own heart was pure of all deceit.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Many that his death profited not at all
had to pay for it bitterly.
Then said Sir Siegfried, "I marvel, since
they bring us so much from the kitchen,
that they bring not the wine. If good
hunters be entreated so, I will hunt no
more. Certes, I have deserved better at
your hands."
Whereto the king at the table answered
falsely, "What lacketh to-day we will
make good another time. The blame is
Hagen's, that would have us perish of
thirst."
Then said Hagen of Trony, "Dear
master, methought we were to hunt to-day
at Spessart, and I sent the wine thither.
For the present we must go thirsty; an-
other time I will take better care."
But Siegfried cried, "Small thank to
him. Seven sumpters with meat and
spiced wines should he have sent here at
the least, or, if that might not be, we
should have gone nigher to the Rhine."
Hagen of Trony answered, " I know of a
cool spring close at hand. Be not wroth
with me, but take my counsel, and go
thither." The which was done, to the
hurt of many warriors. Siegfried was
sore athirst and bade push back the table,
that he might go to the spring at the foot
of the mountain. Falsely had the knights
contrived it. The wild beasts that Sieg-
fried's hand had slain they let pile on a
waggon and take home, and all they that
saw it praised him.
Foully did Hagen break faith with Sieg-
fried. He said, when they were starting
for the broad lime tree, "I hear from all
sides that none can keep pace with Kriem-
hild's husband when he runneth. Let us
see now."
Bold Siegfried of the Netherland an-
swered, "Thou mayst easily prove it, if
thou wilt run with me to the brook for a
wager. The praise shall be to him that
winneth there first."
"Let us see then," said Hagen the
knight.
And stark Siegfried answered, "If I lose,
I will lay me at thy feet in the grass."
A glad man was King Gunther when he
heard that i
Said Siegfried further, "Nay, I will
undertake more. I will carry on me all
that I wear — spear, shield, and hunting
gear." Whereupon he girded on his
sword and his quiver in haste. Then the
others did off their clothes, till they stood
in their white shirts, and they ran through
the clover like two wild panthers; but bold
Siegfried was seen there the first. Before
all men he won the prize in everything.
He loosed his sword straightway, and laid
down his quiver. His good spear he
leaned against the lime tree; then the
noble guest stood and waited, for his cour-
tesy was great. He laid down his shield
by the stream. Albeit he was sore athirst,
he drank not till that the king had finished,
who gave him evil thanks.
The stream was cool, pure, and good.
Gunther bent down to the water, and rose
again when he had drunk. Siegfried had
gladly done the like, but he suffered for his
courtesy. Hagen carried his bow and
his sword out of his reach, and sprang
back and gripped the spear. Then he
spied for the secret mark on his vesture;
and while Siegfried drank from the stream,
Hagen stabbed him where the cross was,
that his heart's blood spurted out on the
traitor's clothes. Never since hath knight
done so wickedly. He left the spear stick-'
ing deep in his heart, and fled in grimmer
haste than ever had he done from any
man on this earth afore.
When stark Siegfried felt the deep
wound, he sprang up maddened from the
water, for the long boar spear stuck out
from his heart. He thought to find bow
or sword; if he had, Hagen had got his due.
But the sore-wounded man saw no sword,
and had nothing save his shield. He
picked it up from the water's edge and
ran at Hagen. King Gunther's man could
not escape him. For all that he was
wounded to the death, he smote so mightily
that the shield well-nigh brake, and the
precious stones flew out. The noble
guest had fain taken vengeance.
Hagen fell beneath his stroke. The
meadow rang loud with the noise of the
blow. If he had had his sword to hand,
Hagen had been a dead man. But the,
86
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
anguish of his wound constrained him.
His color was wan; he could not stand
upright; and the strength of his body
failed him, for he bare death's mark on
his white cheek. Fair women enow made
dole for him.
Then Kriemhild's husband fell among
the flowers. The blood flowed fast from
his wound, and in his great anguish he
began to upbraid them that had falsely
contrived his death. "False cowards!"
cried the dying knight. "What availeth
all my service to you, since ye have slain
me? I was true to you, and pay the price
for it. Ye have.' done ill by your friends.
Cursed by this deed are your sons yet un-
born. Ye have avenged your spite on
my body all too bitterly. For your crime
ye shall be shunned by good knights."
All the warriors ran where he lay
stabbed. To many among them it was a
woeful day. They that were true mourned
for him, the which the hero had well de-
served of all men.
The King of Burgundy, also, wept for
his death, but the dying man said, "He
needeth not to weep for the evil, by whom
the evil cometh. Better had he left it
undone, for mickle is his blame."
Then said grim Hagen, "I know not
what ye rue. All is ended for us — care
and trouble. Few are they now that will
withstand us. Glad am I that, through
me, his might is fallen."
"Lightly mayst thou boast now," said
Siegfried; "if I had known thy murderous
hate, it had been an easy thing to guard
my body from thee. My bitterest dole
is for Kriemhild, my wife. God pity me
that ever I had a son. For all men will
reproach him that he hath murderers to
his kinsmen. I would grieve for that, had
I the time."
He said to the king, "Never in this
world was so foul a murder as thou hast
done on me. In thy sore need I saved
thy life and thine honor. Dear have I
paid for that I did well by thee." With a
groan the wounded man said further,
"Yet if thou canst show truth to any on
this earth, O King, show it to my dear
wife, that I commend to thee. Let it
advantage her to be thy sister. By all
princely honor stand by her. Long must
my father and my knights wait for my
coming. Never hath woman won such
woe through a dear one."
He writhed in his bitter anguish, and
spake painfully, "Ye shall rue this foul
deed in the days to come. Know this of a
truth, that in slaying me ye have slain
yourselves."
The flowers were all wet with blood.
He strove with death, but not for long, for
the weapon of death cut too deep. And
the bold knight and good spake no more.
When the warriors saw that the hero
was dead, they laid him on a shield of
ruddy gold, and took counsel how they
should conceal that Hagen had done it.
Many of them said, "Evil hath befalleu
us. Ye shall all hide it, and hold to one
tale — when Kriemhild's husband was rid-
ing alone in the forest, robbers slew him."
But Hagen of Trony said, "I will take
him back to Burgundy. If she that hath
troubled Brunhild know it, I care not. It
concerneth me little if she weep."
Of that very brook where Siegfried was
slain ye shall hear the truth from me. In
the Odenwald is a village that hight Oden-
heim, and there the stream runneth still;
beyond doubt it is the same.
HOW KRIEMHILD RECEIVED HAGEN
WHEN the Burgundians came into the
land, old Hildebrand of Bern heard there-
of, and told his master, that was grieved
at the news. He bade him give hearty
welcome to the valiant knights.
Bold Wolf hart called for the horses, and
many stark warriors rode with Dietrich to
greet them on the plain, where they had
pitched their goodly tents.
When Hagen of Trony saw them from
afar, he spake courteously to his masters,
"Arise, ye doughty heroes, and go to meet
them that come to welcome you. A com-
pany of warriors that I know well draw
hither — the heroes of the Amelung land.
They are men of high courage. Scorn
not their service."
EPIC AND ROMANCE
Then, as was seemly, Dietrich, with
many knights and squires, sprang to the
ground. They hasted to the guests, and
welcomed the heroes of Burgundy lovingly.
When Dietrich saw them, he was both
glad and sorry; he knew what was toward,
and grieved that they were come. He
deemed that Rudeger was privy to it, and
had told them. " Ye be welcome, Gunther
and Giselher, Gernot and Hagen; Folker,
likewise, and Dankwart the swift. Know
ye not that Kriemhild still mourneth
bitterly for the hero of the Nibelungs?"
"She will weep awhile," answered
Hagen. "This many a year he lieth slain.
She did well to comfort her with the king
of the Huns. Siegfried will not come
again. He is long buried."
"Enough of Siegfried's wounds. While
Kriemhild, my mistress, liveth, mischief
may well betide. Wherefore, hope of the
Nibelungs, beware!" So spake Dietrich
of Bern.
"Wherefore should I beware?" said the
king. "Etzel sent us envoys (what more
could I ask?) bidding us hither to this
land. My sister Kriemhild, also, sent us
many greetings."
But Hagen said, "Bid Sir Dietrich and
his good knights tell us further of this
matter, that they may show us the mind
of Kriemhild."
Then the three kings went apart: Gun-
ther and Gernot and Dietrich.
"Now tell us, noble knight of Bern,
what thou knowest of the queen's mind."
The prince of Bern answered, "What
can I tell you, save that every morning I
have heard Etzel's wife weeping and wail-
ing in bitter woe to the great God of
Heaven, because of stark Siegfried's
death?"
Said bold Folker, the fiddler, "There is
no help for it. Let us ride to the court
and see what befalleth us among the
Huns."
The bold Burgundians rode to the court
right proudly, after the custom of their
land. Many bold Huns marvelled much
what manner of man Hagen of Trony
might be. The folk knew well, from hear-
say, that he had slain Siegfried of the
Netherland, the starkest of all knights,
Kriemhild's husband. Wherefore many
questions were asked concerning him.
The hero was of great stature; that is
certain. His shoulders were broad, his
hair was grisled; his legs were long, and
terrible was his face. He walked with a
proud gait.
Then lodging was made ready for the
Burgundians. Gunther's attendants lay
separate from the others. The queen,
that greatly hated Gunther, had so ordered
it. By this device his yeomen were slain
soon after.
Dankwart, Hagen's brother, was mar-
shal. The king commended his men earn-
estly to his care, that he might give them
meat and drink enow, the which the bold
knight did faithfully and with good will.
Kriemhild went forth with her atten-
dants and welcomed the Nibelungs with
false heart. She kissed Giselher and took
him by the hand. When Hagen of Trony
saw that, he bound his helmet on tighter.
"After such greeting," he said, "good
knights may well take thought. The
kings and their men are not all alike wel-
come. No good cometh of our journey to
this hightide."
She answered, "Let him that is glad to
see thee welcome thee. I will not greet
thee as a friend. What bringest thou for
me from Worms, beyond the Rhine, that
thou shouldst be so greatly welcome? "
"This is news," said Hagen, "that
knights should bring thee gifts. Had I
thought of it, I had easily brought thee
something. I am rich enow."
"Tell me what thou hast done with the
Nibelung hoard. That, at the least, was
mine own. Ye should have brought it
with you into Etzel's land."
"By my troth, lady, I have not touched
the Nibelung hoard this many a year.
My masters bade me sink it in the Rhine.
There it must bide till the day of doom."
Then said the queen, "I thought so.
Little hast thou brought thereof, albeit
it was mine own, and held by me afore-
time. Many a sad day I have lived for
lack of it and its lord."
"I bring thee the devil!" cried Hagen.
88
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
" My shield and my harness were enow to
carry, and my bright helmet, and the
sword in my hand. I have brought thee
naught further."
"I speak not of my treasure, because I
desire the gold. I have so much to give
that I need not thy offerings. A murder
and a double theft — it is these that I,
unhappiest of women, would have thee
make good to me."
Then said the queen to all the knights,
"None shall bear weapons in this hall.
Deliver them to me, ye knights, that they
be taken in charge."
"Not so, by my troth," said Hagen;
" I crave not the honor, great daughter of
kings, to have thee bear my shield and
other weapons to safe keeping. Thou
art a queen here. My father taught me
to guard them myself."
" Woe is me ! " cried Kriemhild. "Why
will not Hagen and my brother give up
their shields? They are warned. If I
knew him that did it, he should die."
Sir Dietrich answered wrathfully then,
"I am he that warned the noble kings,
and bold Hagen, the man of Burgundy.
Do thy worst, thou devil's wife, I care
not!"
Kriemhild was greatly ashamed, for she
stood in bitter fear of Dietrich. She went
from him without a word, but with swift
and wrathful glances at her foes.
Then two knights clasped hands — the
one was Dietrich, the other Hagen. Diet-
rich, the valiant warrior, said courteously,
"I grieve to see thee here, since the queen
hath spoken thus."
Hagen of Trony answered, "It will all
come right."
So the bold men spake together, and
King Etzel saw them, and asked, " I would
know who yonder knight is that Dietrich
welcometh so lovingly. He beareth him
proudly. Howso is his father hight, he is,
certes, a goodly warrior."
One of Kriemhild's men answered the
king, "He was born at Trony. The name
of his father was Aldrian. Albeit now he
goeth gently, he is a grim man. I will
prove to thee yet that I lie not."
"How shall I find him so grim?" He
knew nothing, as yet, of all that the queea
contrived against her kinsmen: by reason
whereof not one of them escaped alive from
the Huns.
"I know Hagen well. He was my vas-
sal. Praise and mickle honor he won here
by me. I made him a knight, and gave
him my gold. For that he proved him
faithful, I was ever kind to him. Where-
fore I may well know all about him. I
brought two noble children captive to this
land — him and Walter of Spain. Here
they grew to manhood. Hagen I sent
home again. Walter fled with Hilde-
gund."
So he mused on the good old days, and
what had happed long ago, for he had
seen Hagen, that did him stark service in
his youth. Yet now that he was old, he
lost by him many a dear friend.
HOW THE QUEEN BAD THEM BURN DOWH
THE HALL
"Now do off your helmets," said Hagen
the knight. "I and my comrade will
keep watch. And if Etzel's men try it
again, I will warn my masters straight-
way."
Then many a good warrior unlaced his
helmet. They sat down on the bodies
that had fallen in the blood by their hands.
With bitter hate the guests were spied at
by the Huns.
Before nightfall the king and queen had
prevailed on the men of Hungary to dare
the combat anew. Twenty thousand or
more stood before them ready for battle.
These hasted to fall on the strangers.
Dankwart, Hagen's brother, sprang
from his masters to the foemen at the
door. They thought he was slain, but
he came forth alive.
The strife endured till the night. The
guests, as beseemed good warriors, had
defended them against Etzel's men all
through the long summer day. Ha!
what doughty heroes lay dead before them.
It was on a midsummer that the great
slaughter fell, when Kriemhild avenged''
her heart's dole on her nearest kinsmen.
EPIC AND ROMANCE
and on many another man, and all King
Etzel's joy was ended. Yet she purposed
not at the first to bring it to such a bloody
encounter, but only to kill Hagen ; but the
devil contrived it so that they must all
perish.
The day was done; they were in sore
straits. They deemed a quick death had
been better than long anguish. The
proud knights would fain have had a
truce. They asked that the king might
be brought to them.
The heroes, red with blood, and black-
ened with the soil of their harness, stepped
out of the hall with the three kings. They
knew not whom to bewail their bitter
woe to.
Both Etzel and Kriemhild came. The
land all round was theirs, and many had
joined their host. Etzel said to the guests,
" What would ye with me? Haply ye seek
for peace. That can hardly be, after such
wrong as ye have done me and mine. Ye
shall pay for it while I have life. Because
of my child that ye slew, and my many
men,» nor peace nor truce shall ye have."
Gunther answered, "A great wrong
constrained us thereto. All my followers
perished in their lodging by the hands of
thy knights. What had I done to deserve
that? I came to see thee in good faith,
for I deemed thou wert my friend."
Then said Giselher, the youth, of Bur-
gundy, "Ye knights of King Etzel that
yet live, what have ye against me? How
had I wronged you? — I that rode hither
with loving heart?"
They answered, "Thy love hath filled
all the castles of this country with mourn-
ing. We had gladly been spared thy jour-
ney from Worms beyond the Rhine.
Thou hast orphaned the land — thou and
thy brothers."
Then cried Gunther in wrath, "If ye
would lay from you this stark hate against
us homeless ones, it were well for both
sides, for we are guiltless before Etzel."
But the host answered the guests,
"My scathe is greater than thine; because
of the mickle toil of the strife, and its
shame, not one of you shall come forth
alive."
Then said stark Gernot to the king,
"Herein, at the least, incline thy heart to
do mercifully with us. Stand back from
the house, that we win out to you. We
know that our life is forfeit; let what must
come, come quickly. Thou hast many
knights un wounded; let them fall on us,
and give us battle-weary ones rest. How
long wouldst thou have us strive?"
King Etzel's knights would have let
them forth, but when Kriemhild heard it,
she was wroth, and even this boon was
denied to the strangers.
"Nay now, ye Huns, I entreat you, hi
good faith, that ye let not these lusters
after blood come out from the hall, lest
thy kinsmen all perish miserably. If
none of them were left alive save Uta's
children, my noble brothers, and won they
to the air to cool their harness, ye were
lost. Bolder knights were never born
into the world."
Then said young Giselher, "Fairest
sister mine, right evil I deem it that thou
badest me across the Rhine to this bitter
woe. How have I deserved death from
the Huns? I was ever true to thee, nor
did thee any hurt. I rode hither, dearest
sister, for that I trusted to thy love.
Needs must thou show mercy."
"I will show no mercy, for I got none.
Bitter wrong did Hagen of Trony to me
in my home yonder, and here he hath
slam my child. They that came with
him must pay for it. Yet, if ye will de-
liver Hagen captive, I will grant your
prayer, and let you live; for ye are my
brothers, and the children of one mother.
I will prevail upon my knights here to
grant a truce."
"God in heaven forbid!" cried Gernot.
"Though we were a thousand, liefer would
we all die by thy kinsmen, than give one
single man for our ransom. That we will
never do."
"We must perish then," said Giselher;
"but we will fall as good knights. We
are still here; would any fight with us?
I will never do falsely by my friend."
Cried bold Dankwart too (he had done
ill to hold his peace), "My brother Hagen
standeth not alone. They that have
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
denied us quarter may rue it yet. By
my troth, ye will find it to your cost."
Then said the queen, "Ye heroes un-
dismayed, go forward to the steps and
avenge our wrong. I will thank you for-
ever, and with cause. I will requite
Hagen's insolence to the full. Let not
one of them forth at any point, and I will
kindle the hall at its four sides. So will
my heart's dole be avenged."
Etzel's knights were not loth. With
darts and with blows they drave back into
the house them that stood without. Loud
was the din; but the princes and their
men were not parted, nor failed they in
faith to one another.
Etzel's wife bade the hall be kindled,
and they tormented the bodies of the
heroes with fire. The wind blew, and the
house was soon all aflame. Folk never
suffered worse, I ween. There were many
that cried, "Woe is me for this pain!
Liefer had we died in battle. God pity
us, for we are all lost. The queen taketh
bitter vengeance."
One among them wailed, "We perish
by the smoke and the fire. Grim is ouf
torment. The stark heat maketh me so
athirst, that I die."
Said Hagen of Trony, " Ye noble knights
and good, let any that are athirst drink
the blood. In this heat it is better than
wine, and there is naught sweeter here."
Then went one where he found a dead
body. He knelt by the wounds, and did
off his helmet, and began to drink the
streaming blood. Albeit he was little
used thereto, he deemed it right good.
"God quit thee, Sir Hagen!" said the
weary man, "I have learned a good drink.
Never did I taste better wine. If I live,
I will thank thee."
When the others heard his praise, many
more of them drank the blood, and their
bodies were strengthened, for the which
many a noble woman paid through her
dear ones.
The fire-flakes fell down on them in the
hall, but they warded them off with their
shields. Both the smoke and the fire
tormented them. Never before suffered
heroes such sore pain.
Then said Hagen of Trony, "Stand fast
by the wall. Let not the brands fall on
your helmets. Trample them with your
feet deeper in the blood. A woeful high-
tide is the queen's."
The night ended at last. The bold
gleeman, and Hagen, his comrade, stood
before the house and leaned upon their
shields. They waited for further hurt
from Etzel's knights. It advantaged the
strangers much that the roof was vaulted.
By reason thereof more were left alive.
Albeit they at the windows suffered scathe,
they bare them valiantly, as their bold
hearts bade them.
Then said the fiddler, " Go we now into
the hall, that the Huns deem we be all
dead from this torment, albeit some among
them shall yet feel our might."
Giselher, the youth, of Burgundy, said,
"It is daybreak, I ween. A cool wind
bloweth. God grant we may see happier
days. My sister Kriemhild hath bidden
us to a doleful hightide."
One of them spake, "I see the dawn.
Since we can do no better, arm you, ye
knights, for battle, that, come we never
hence, we may die with honor."
Etzel deemed the guests were all dead
of their travail and the stress of the fire.
But six hundred bold men yet lived.
Never king had better knights. They
that kept ward over the strangers had
seen that some were left, albeit the princes
and their men had suffered loss and dole.
They saw many that walked up and down
in the house.
They told Kriemhild that many were
left alive, but the queen answered, "It
cannot be. None could live in that fire.
I trow they all lie dead."
The kings and their men had still gladly
asked for mercy, had there been any to
show it. But there was none in the whole
country of th« Huns. Wherefore they
avenged their death with willing hand.
They were greeted early in the morning
with a fierce onslaught, and came in great
scathe. Stark spears were hurled at them.
Well the knights within stood on their
defence.
Etzel's men were the bolder, that they
EPIC AND ROMANCE
might win Kriemhild's fee. Thereto,
they obeyed the king gladly; but soon they
looked on death.
One might tell marvels of her gifts and
promises. She bade them bear forth red
gold upon shields, and gave thereof to all
that desired it, or would take it. So
great treasure was never given against
foemen.
The host of warriors came armed to
the hall. The fiddler said, "We are here.
I never was gladder to see any knights
than those that have taken the king's gold
to our hurt."
Not a few of them cried out, "Come
nigher, ye heroes! Do your worst, and
make an end quickly, for here are none
but must die."
Soon their bucklers were filled full of
darts. What shall I say more? Twelve
hundred warriors strove once and again
to win entrance. The guests cooled their
hardihood with wounds. None could
part the strife. The blood flowed from
death-deep wounds. Many were slain.
Each bewailed some friend. All Etzel's
worthy knights perished. Their kinsmen
sorrowed bitterly.
HOW GUNTHER, HAGEN, AND KRIEMHILD
WERE SLAIN
THEREUPON Sir Dietrich went and got
his harness himself. Old Hildebrand
helped to arm him. The strong man wept
so loud that the house rang with his voice.
But soon he was of stout heart again, as
beseemed a hero. He did on his armor in
wrath. He took a fine-tempered shield in
his hand, and they hasted to the place —
he and Master Hildebrand.
Then said Hagen of Trony, "I see Sir
Dietrich yonder. He cometh to avenge
his great loss. This day will show which
of us twain is the better man. Howso
stark of body and grim Sir Dietrich may
deem him, I doubt not but I shall stand
against him, if he seek vengeance." So
spake Hagen.
Dietrich, that was with Hildebrand,
heard him. He came where both the
knights stood outside the house, leaning
against the wall. Good Dietrich laid down
his shield, and, moved with deep woe, he
said, " Why hast thou so entreated a home-
less knight? What had I done to thee?
Thou hast ended all my joy. Thou
deemedst it too little to have slain Rudeger
to our scathe; now thou hast robbed me
of all my men. I had never done the like
to you, O knights. Think on yourselves,
and your loss — the death of your friends,
and your travail. By reason thereof are
ye not heavy of your cheer? Alack!
how bitter to me is Rudeger's death!
There was never such woe in this world.
Ye have done evilly by me and by your-
selves. All the joy I had ye have slain.
How shall I ever mourn enough for all my
kinsmen?"
"We are not alone to blame," answered
Hagen. ' ' Your knights came hither armed
and ready, with a great host. Methinketh
the tale hath not been told thee aright."
"What shall I believe then? Hilde-
brand said that when my knights of
Amelung begged you to give them Rude-
ger's body, ye answered mockingly as
they stood below."
Then said the prince of Rhineland,
"They told me they were come to bear
Rudeger hence. I denied them, not to
anger thy men, but to grieve Etzel withal.
Whereat Wolf hart flew in a passion."
Said the prince of Bern, "There is noth-
ing for it. Of thy knightliness, atone to
me for the wrong thou hast done me, and
I will avenge it no further. Yield thee
captive, thee and thy man, and I will de-
fend thee to the uttermost, against the
wrath of the Huns. Thou wilt find me
faithful and true."
"God in heaven forbid," cried Hagen,
"that two knights, armed as we are for
battle, should yield them to thee ! I would
hold it a great shame, and ill dene."
"Deny me not," said Dietrich. "Ye
have made me heavy-hearted enow, O
Gunther and Hagen; and it is no more
than just that ye make it good. I swear
to you, and give you my hand thereon,
that I will ride back with you to your
own country. I will bring you safely
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
thither, or die with you, and forget my
great wrong for your sakes."
"Ask us no more," said Hagen. "It
were a shameful tale to tell of us, that
two such bold men yielded them captive.
I see none save Hildebrand by thy side."
Hildebrand answered, "Ye would do
well to take my master's terms; the hour
will come, or long, when ye would gladly
take them, but may not have them."
"Certes, I had liefer do it," said Hagen,
"than flee mine adversary like a coward,
as thou didst, Master Hildebrand. By
my troth, I deemed thou hadst withstood
a foeman better."
Cried Hildebrand, "Thou needest not
to twit me. Who was it that, by the wask-
stone, sat upon his shield when Walter
of Spain slew so many of his kinsmen?
Thou, thyself, art not void of blame."
Said Sir Dietrich then, "It beseemeth
not warriors to fight with words like old
women. I forbid thee, Master Hilde-
brand, to say more. Homeless knight
that I am, I have grief enow. Tell me
now, Sir Hagen, what ye good knights
said when ye saw me coming armed. Was
it not that thou alone wouldst defy
me?"
"Thou hast guessed rightly," answered
Hagen. "I am ready to prove it with
swift blows, if my Nibelung sword break
not. I am wroth that ye would have had
us yield us captive."
When Dietrich heard grim Hagen's
mind, he caught up his shield, and sprang
up the steps. The Nibelung sword rang
loud on his mail. Sir Dietrich knew well
that the bold man was fierce. The prince
of Bern warded off the strokes. He needed
not to learn that Hagen was a valiant
knight. Thereto, he feared stark Bal-
mung. But ever and anon he struck out
warily, till he had overcome Hagen in the
strife. He gave him a wound that was
deep and wide. Then thought Sir Diet-
rich, "Thy long travail hath made thee
weak. I had little honor hi thy death.
Liefer will I take thee captive." Not
lightly did he prevail. He threw down
his shield. He was stark and bold, and
he caught Hagen of Trony in his arms.
So the valiant man was vanquished. King
Gunther grieved sore.
Dietrich bound Hagen, and led him to
the queen, and delivered into her hand
the boldest knight that ever bare a sword.
After her bitter dole, she was glad enow.
She bowed before the knight for joy.
"Blest be thou in soul and body. Thou
hast made good to me all my woe. I
will thank thee till my dying day."
Then said Dietrich, "Let him live,
noble queen. His service may yet atone
to thee for what he hath done to thy hurt.
Take not vengeance on him for that he is
bound."
She bade them lead Hagen to a dungeon.
There he lay locked up, and none saw him.
Then King Gunther called aloud,
"Where is the hero of Bern? He hath
done me a grievous wrong."
Sir Dietrich went to meet him. Gun-
ther was a man of might. He tarried not,
but ran toward him from the hall. Loud
was the din of their swords.
Howso famed Dietrich was from afore-
time, Gunther was so wroth and so fell,
and so bitterly his foeman, by reason of
the wrong he had endured, that it was a
marvel Sir Dietrich came off alive. They
were stark and mighty men both. Palace
and towers echoed with their blows, as
their swift swords hewed their good hel-
mets. A high-hearted king was Gunther. '
But the knight of Bern overcame him, as
he had done Hagen . His blood gushed from
his harness by reason of the good sword
that Dietrich carried. Yet Gunther had
defended him well, for all he was so weary.
The knight was bound by Dietrich's
hand, albeit a king should never wear
such bonds. Dietrich deemed, if he left
Gunther and his man free, they would
kill all they met.
He took him by the hand, and led him
before Kriemhild. Her sorrow was lighter
when she saw him. She said, "Thou art
welcome, King Gunther."
He answered, "I would thank thee,
dear sister, if thy greeting were in love.
But I know thy fierce mind, and that thou
mockest me and Hagen."
Then said the prince of Bern, "Most
EPIC AND ROMANCE
93
high queen, there were never nobler cap-
tives than these I have delivered here into
thy hands. Let the homeless knights live
for my sake."
She promised him she would do it gladly,
and good Dietrich went forth weeping.
Yet soon Etzel's wife took grim vengeance,
by reason whereof both the valiant men
perished. She kept them in dungeons,
apart, that neither saw the other again till
she bore her brother's head to Hagen.
Certes, Kriemhild's vengeance was bitter.
The queen went to Hagen, and spake
angrily to the knight. "Give me back
what thou hast taken from me, and ye
may both win back alive to Burgundy."
But grim Hagen answered, "Thy words
are wasted, noble queen. I have sworn
to show the hoard to none. While one
of my masters liveth, none other shall
have it."
"I will end the matter," said the queen.
Then she bade them slay her brother, and
they smote off his head. She carried it
by the hair to the knight of Trony. He
was grieved enow.
When the sorrowful man saw his mas-
ter's head, he cried to Kriemhild, "Thou
hast wrought all thy will. It hath fallen
out as I deemed it must. The noble King
of Burgundy is dead, and Giselher the
youth, and eke Gernot. None knoweth of
the treasure now save God and me. Thou
shalt never see it, devil that thou art."
She said, " I come off ill in the reckoning.
I will keep Siegfried's sword at the least.
My true love wore it when I saw him last.
My bitterest heart's dole was for him."
She drew it from the sheath. He could
not hinder it. She purposed to slay the
knight. She lifted it high with both
hands, and smote off his head.
King Etzel saw it, and sorrowed.
"Alack!" cried the king. "The best
warrior that ever rode to battle, or
bore a shield, hath fallen by the hand of a
woman ! Albeit I was his foeman, I must
grieve."
Then said Master Hildebrand, "His
death shall not profit her. I care not what
come of it. Though I came in scathe by
him myself, I will avenge the death of the
bold knight of Trony."
Hildebrand sprang fiercely at Kriemhild,
and slew her with his sword. She suffered
sore by his anger. Her loud cry helped
her not.
Dead bodies lay stretched over all.
The queen was hewn in pieces. Etzel and
Dietrich began to weep. They wailed
piteously for kinsmen and vassals. Mickle
valor lay there slain. The folk were dole-
ful and dreary.
The end of the king's hightide was woe,
even as, at the last, all joy turneth to
sorrow.
I know not what fell after. Christian
and heathen, wife, man, and maid, were
seen weeping and mourning for their
friends.
I WILL TELL YOU NO MORE. LET THE DEAD
LIE. HOWEVER IT FARED AFTER WITH
THE HUNS, MY TALE IS ENDED.
THIS IS THE FALL OF THE
NIBELUNGS.
SIR THOMAS MALORY (c. 1400-1471)
King Arthur, who was originally a semi-mythical hero of Celtic story, became during the Middle
Ages the personification of the virtues embodied in the institution of Chivalry, and his knights forming
the famous Round Table engaged in the romantic adventures which satisfied the desire of the people
of the period for the strange and the new. Toward the end of the fifteenth century Sir Thomas Malory
collected these various stories, reduced them to something like connected form, and published them in
vigorous prose as one of the books to be issued from Caxton's printing press. The adventures
of the Knights— Sir Gawain, Sir Tristan, Sir Percival, Sir Galahad, and the winning of the Holy Grail-
are recounted in the several books, their prowess and the whole romantic background of chivalry are
described, and the gradual decay of this noble spirit through the presence of evil in the heart of the court
is related with the concluding book, here given, which tells of the destruction of this ideal life and the
passing of the great king.
Tennyson's "Idylls of the King" draw upon Malory for materials for an elaborate poetic treatment
Of the same theme.
'94
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
THE DEATH OF ARTHUR
BOOK XXI OF THE MORTE D'ARTHTJR
I
As SIR Mordredwas ruler of all England,
he caused letters to be made, as though
they came from beyond the sea, and the
letters specified that King Arthur was
slain in battle with Sir Launcelot; where-
fore Sir Mordred made a parliament, and
called the lords together, and there he
made them to chuse him King, and so he
was crowned at Canterbury, and held a
feast there fifteen days. And afterward
he drew him to Winchester, and there he
took Queen Guenever, and said plainly
that he would wed her, which was his
uncle's wife, and his father's wife: and so
he made ready for the feast, and a day
prefixed that they should be wedded.
Wherefore Queen Guenever was passing
heavy, but she durst not discover her
heart; but spake fair, and agreed to Sir
Mordred's will. Then she desired of Sir
Mordred for to go to London, for to buy
all manner of things that belonged unto
the wedding: and, because of her fair
speech, Sir Mordred trusted her well
enough, and gave her leave to go; and,
when she came to London, suddenly, in all
haste possible, she stuffed it with all man-
ner of victuals, and well garnished it with
men, and so kept it. Then, when Sir
Mordred wist and understood how he
was deceived, he was passing wroth out of
measure. And, to make short tale, he
went and laid a mighty siege about the
Tower of London, and made many great
assaults thereat, and threw many great
engines unto them, and shot great guns.
But all might not prevail Sir Mordred.
For Queen Guenever would never, for fair
speech, nor for foul, trust to come in his
hands again. And then came the Bishop
of Canterbury, the which was a noble clerk,
and a holy man, and thus he said to Sir
Mordred, "Sir, what will ye do? will ye
first displease God, and after shame your-
self, and all knighthood? Is not King
Arthur your uncle, no further but your
mother's brother, and on her himself King
Arthur begat you upon his own sister,
therefore how may ye wed your father's
wife? Sir," said the noble clerk, "leave
this opinion, or else I shall curse you with
book, bell, and candle." " Do thy worst,"
said Sir Mordred, "wit thou well that I
utterly defy thee." " Sir," said the bishop,
"I shall not fear me to do that I ought t<>
do. Also, whereas ye noise that my lord
King Arthur is slain, it is not so; and there-
fore ye will make an abominable work in
this land." "Peace! thou false priest,"
said Sir Mordred, "for and thou chafe
me any more, I shall make thy head to be
stricken off." So the bishop departed,
and did the curse in the most orgulous
wise that might be done. And then Sir
Mordred sought the Bishop of Canterbury,
for to have slain him. And when the
bishop heard that, he fled, and took part
of his goods with him, and went nigh unto
Glastonbury, and there he was a religious
hermit in a chapel, and lived in poverty,
and in holy prayers. For well he under-
stood that a mischievous war was near at
hand. Then Sir Mordred sought upon
Queen Guenever, by letters and messages,
and by fair means and foul, for to have
her come out of the Tower of London.
But all this availed him not, for she an-
swered him shortly, openly and privily,
that she had lever slay herself than to be
married with him. Then came word to
Sir Mordred, that King Arthur had raised
the siege from Sir Launcelot, and that he
was coming homeward with a great host,
for to be avenged upon Sir Mordred.
Wherefore Sir Mordred made to write
letters unto all the barony of this land,
arid much people drew unto him; for then
was the common voice among them, that
with King Arthur was none other life but
war and strife, and with Sir Mordred was
great joy and bliss. Thus was King
Arthur deprived, and evil said of; and
many there were that King Arthur had
made up of nought, and had given them
lands, might not say of him then a good
word.
Lo! ye all Englishmen see what a mis-
chief here was: for he that was the noblest
knight and king of the world, and most
EPIC AND ROMANCE
loved the fellowship of noble knights and
men of worship, and by him they were all
upholden. Now, might not we English-
men hold us content with him; lo! this
was the old custom and usage of this land.
And also men say, that we of this land
have not yet lost nor forgotten the custom
and usage. Alas! alas! this is a great de-
fault of us Englishmen, for there may noth-
ing please us no term. And so fared the
people at that time. For they were better
pleased with Sir Mordred than they were
with King Arthur; and much people drew
unto Sir Mordred, and said they would
abide with him, for better and for worse.
And so Sir Mordred drew with great haste
toward Dover, for there he heard say that
King Arthur would arrive; and so he
thought to beat his own father from his
lands: and the most part of ail England
held with Sir Mordred, the people were so
new-fangled.
II
AND so, as Sir Mordred was at Dover,
with his host, there came King Arthur,
with a great many ships, galleys, and
carracks; and there was Sir Mordred ready,
waiting upon his landing, to hinder his
own father to land upon the land that he
was king of. Then was there launching
of great boats and small, and all were full
of noble men of arms ; and there was much
slaughter of gentle knights, and many a
full bold baron was laid full low, on both
parties. But King Arthur was so cour-
ageous, that there might no manner of
knight let him to land, and his knights
fiercely followed him; and so they landed,
maugre Sir Mordred and all his power:
and put Sir Mordred back, that he fled,
and all his people. So when this battle
was done, King Arthur let bury his people
that were dead: and then was the noble
knight, Sir Gawaine, found in a great
boat, lying more than half dead. When
King Arthur wist that Sir Gawaine was
laid so low, he went unto him, and there
the King made sorrow out of measure, and
took Sir Gawaine in his arms, and thrice
he swooned: and then he came to himself
again, and said, "Alas! my sister's son,
here now thou liest, the man in the world
that I loved most; and now is my joy gone.
For now, my nephew, Sir Gawaine, I will
discover me unto your person: in Sir
Launcelot and you I most had my joy
and mine affiance, and now have I lost
my joy of you both, wherefore all mine
earthly joy is gone from me." " My uncle,
King Arthur," said Sir Gawaine, "wit you
well, that my death's-day is come, and
all is through mine own hastiness and
wilfulness; for I am smitten upon the old
wound that Sir Launcelot du Lake gave
me, of the which I feel that I must die;
and if Sir Launcelot had been with you as
he was, this unhappy war had never be-
gun, and of all this I myself am causer:
for Sir Launcelot and his blood, through
their prowess, held all your cankered ene-
mies in subjection and danger. And now,"
said Sir Gawaine, "ye shall miss Sir
Launcelot: but, alas! I would not accord
with him, and therefore," said Sir Ga-
waine, "I pray you, fair uncle, that I
may have paper, pen, and ink, that I
may write unto Sir Launcelot a letter with
mine own hands." And when paper and
ink was brought, Sir Gawaine was set
up, weakly, by King Arthur, for he had
been shriven a little before, and he wrote
thus:
"UNTO SIR LAUNCELOT, flower of all
noble knights that ever I heard of or saw
in my days.
"I, Sir Gawaine, King Lot's son, of
Orkney, sister's son unto the noble King
Arthur, send unto thee, greeting, and let
thee have knowledge, that the tenth
day of May I was smitten upon the old
wound which thou gavest me before the
city of Benwicke; and through the same
wound thou gavest me I am come unto my
death-day, and I will that all the world
wit that I, Sir Gawaine, knight of the
Round Table, sought my death, and not
through thy deserving, but it was mine
own seeking; wherefore I beseech thee,
Sir Launcelot, for to return again unto this
realm, and see my tomb, and pray some
prayer, more or less, for my soul. And
that same day that I wrote this letter I
96
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
was hurt to the death in the same wound,
the which I had of thy hands, Sir Launce-
lot. For of a nobler man might I not be
slain. Also, Sir Launcelot, for all the
love that ever was between us, make no
tarrying, but come over the sea in all the
haste that thou mayest, with thy noble
knights, and rescue that noble King that
made thee knight, that is my lord and
uncle, King Arthur, for he is full straitly
bestood with a false traitor, which is my
false brother, Sir Mordred, and he hath let
crown himself king, and he would have
wedded my lady, Queen Guenever; and
so had he done, if she had not put herself
in the Tower of London. And so the
tenth day of May last past, my lord and
uncle, King Arthur, and we, all landed
upon them at Dover, and there we put
that false traitor, Sir Mordred, to flight;
and there it misfortuned me for to be
stricken upon thy stroke. And, at the
date of this letter was written, but two
hours and a half before my death, written
with mine own hand, and so subscribed
with part of my heart's blood, and I re-
quire thee, as thou art the most famous
knight of the world, that thou wilt see
my tomb."
And then Sir Gawaine wept, and also
King Arthur wept, and then they swooned
both; and when they awaked both, the
King made Sir Gawaine to receive his
Saviour. And then Sir Gawaine prayed
the King to send for Sir Launcelot, and
to cherish him above all other knights.
And so, at the hour of noon, Sir Gawaine
betook his soul into the hands of our Lord
God. And there the King let bury him in
a chapel within the castle of Dover: and
there, yet unto this day, all men may see
the skull of Sir Gawaine, and the same
wound is seen that Sir Launcelot gave
him in battle. Then was it told to King
Arthur that Sir Mordred had pitched a
new field upon Barendown, and on the
morrow the King rode thither to him, and
there was a great battle between them, and
much people were slain on both parts;
but at the last King Arthur's party stood
best, and Sir Mordred and his party fled
Onto Canterbury.
Ill
AND then the King searched all towns
for his knights that were slain, and made
to bury them; and those that were sore
wounded he caused them to be salved
with soft salves. Then much people
drew unto King Arthur, and said that Sir
Mordred warred on King Arthur wrong-
fully. And then the King drew him and
with his host down unto the sea-side,
westward, unto Salisbury, and there was
a day assigned between King Arthur
and Sir Mordred, and they should meet
upon a down beside Salisbury, and not far
from the sea-side; and this day was as-
signed upon a Monday after Trinity
Sunday, whereof King Arthur was pass-
ing glad, that he might be avenged upon
that traitor, Sir Mordred. Then Sir
Mordred raised much people about Lon-
don, for they of Kent, Sussex, and Surrey,
Essex, and Suffolk, and of Norfolk, held
for the most part with Sir Mordred, and
many a noble knight drew unto Sir Mor-
dred, and unto King Arthur; but they that
loved Sir Launcelot drew unto Sir Mordred.
And so, upon Trinity Sunday, at night,
King Arthur dreamed a right wonderful
dream, and that was this: that him thought
he sat upon a scaffold in a chair, and the
chair was fast unto a wheel, and thereupon
sat King Arthur, in the richest cloth of
gold that might be made; and the King
thought there was under him, far from him,
a hideous and a deep black water, and
therein was all manner of serpents and
worms, and wild beasts, foul and horrible ;
and suddenly the King thought that the
wheel turned upside down, and that he
fell among the serpents and wild beasts,
and every beast took him by a limb: and
then the King cried, as he lay in his bed
and slept, "Help!"
And then knights, squires, and yeomen
awaked the King, and then he was so
amazed, that he wist not where he was;
and then he fell in a slumbering again,
not sleeping, nor through waking. So
King Arthur thought there came Sir Ga-
waine unto him verily, with a number of
fair ladies with him; and so, when King
EPIC AND ROMANCE
97
Arthur saw him, he said, "Welcome, my
sister's son, I weened thou hast been dead,
and now I see thee alive; much am I be-
holden unto Almighty Jesu. Oh! fair
nephew, and my sister's son, what be these
ladies that be come hither with you?"
"Sir," said Sir Gawaine, "all these be
the ladies for whom I have fought when
I was a man living; and all these are those
that I did battle for in a rightwise quarrel,
and God hath given them that grace at
their great prayer, because I did battle
for them, that they should bring me hither
to you; thus much hath God given me
leave for to warn you of your death;
for and ye fight as to-morrow with Sir
Mordred, as both ye have assigned, doubt
ye not ye must be slain, and the most
part of your people, on both parties: and
for the great grace and goodness that
Almighty Jesu hath unto you, and for
pity of you, and many more other good
men, that there should be slain, God
hath sent me unto you, of His most special
grace, for to give you warning, that in no
wise ye do battle as to-morrow, but that
ye take a treaty for a month's day, and
proffer him largely, so as to-morrow to be
put in a delay; for within a month shall
come Sir Launcelot, with all his noble
knights, and shall rescue you worship-
fully, and slay Sir Mordred and all that
ever will hold him." Then Sir Gawaine
and all the ladies vanished. And anon
the King called upon his knights, squires,
and yeomen, and charged them lightly
to fetch his noble lords and wise bishops
unto him; and when they were come, the
King told them his vision, what Sir Ga-
waine told him, and warned him, that if
he fought on the morrow he should be slam.
Then the King commanded Sir Lucan, the
butler; and his brother, Sir Bedivere; and
two bishops with them, and charged them
in any wise if they might take a treaty for
a month with Sir Mordred; and spare not
to proffer him lands and goods, as much
as ye think best. So then they departed
and came to Sir Mordred, where he had
a grimly host of a hundred thousand men,
and thereby entreated Sir Mordred long
time; and, at the last, Sir Mordred was
agreed to have Cornwall and Kent by
King Arthur's days, and after the days of
King Arthur to have all England to his
obeisance.
IV
So THEN were they condescended that
King Arthur and Sir Mordred should meet
between both their hosts, and every each
of them should bring fourteen persons;
and then came this word unto King
Arthur. "And then," said he, "I am
glad that this is done." And so he went
into the field; and when King Arthur
should depart, he warned all his host,
"that and they saw any sword drawn,
look that ye come on fiercely, and slay
that traitor, Sir Mordred, for hi nowise
trust him." In likewise Sir Mordred
did warn his host, " that if ye see any man-
ner of sword drawn, look that ye come on
fiercely, and so slay all that ever standeth
before you; for in nowise I will not trust
for this treaty, for I know well that my
father will be avenged upon me." And
so they were agreed and accorded thor-
oughly, and wine was set, and they drank.
Right so came an adder out of a little
heath bush, and stung a knight on the
foot. And when the knight felt him stung,
he looked down and saw the adder, and
then he drew his sword to slay the adder,
and thought of none other harm. And
when the hosts on both parties saw that
sword drawn, they blew beames, trumpets,
and horns, and shouted grimly. And so
both hosts dressed them together, and
King Arthur took his horse, and said,
"Alas! this unhappy day:" and so. rode he
to his part. And so Sir Mordred did in
likewise, and never was there seen a more
dolefuller battle in no Christian land:
for there was but rushing and riding, foin-
ing and striking, and many a grim word
was there spoken, either to other, and
many a deadly stroke. But alway King
Arthur rode throughout the battle of Sir
Mordred many times, and did there right
nobly as a noble King should do; and at
all tunes he never fainted. And Sir Mor-
dred that day put him in devoir and in
98
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
great peril, and thus they fought all the
long day, and never stinted till the noble
knights were laid to the cold ground.
And ever they fought still till it was nigh
night, and by that time was there a hun-
dred thousand laid dead upon the down.
Then was King Arthur wroth out of
measure, when he saw his people so slain
from him. Then the King looked about
him, and then was he ware that of all his
host, and of his good knights, were left
no more alive but two knights; that were
Sir Lucan, the butler, and Sir Bedivere, his
brother, and they were right sore wounded.
"Jesu mercy," said King Arthur, "where
are all my noble knights become? Alas!
that ever I should see this doleful day:
for now," said King Arthur, "I am come
unto mine end. But would to God that
I wist where that traitor, Sir Mordred, is,
which hath caused all this mischief?"
Then was King Arthur aware where Sir
Mordred leaned upon his sword among a
great heap of dead men. "Now give me
my spear," said King Arthur to Sir Lucan,
"for yonder I have espied the traitor
which hath wrought all this woe." "Sir,
let him be," said Sir Lucan, "for he is
unhappy; and if ye pass this unhappy day,
ye shall be right well revenged upon him.
My good lord, remember well your dream
that ye had this night, and what the spirit
of Sir Gawaine told you this night; yet
God of his great goodness hath preserved
you hither, therefore, for God's sake, my
lord, leave off by this; for, blessed be
God, ye have won the field, for here we
be three alive, and with Sir Mordred is
none alive, and if ye leave off now this
wicked day of destiny is done." "Betide
me death, betide me life," said the King;
"now I see him yonder alone, he shall
never escape my hands, for at better ad-
vantage shall I never have him." "God
speed you well," said Sir Bedivere. Then
King Arthur gat his spear in both his
hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred, crying,
"Traitor, now is thy death-day come."
And when Sir Mordred heard King Arthur,
he ran unto him with his sword drawn in
his hand, and there King Arthur smote
Sir Mordred under the shield, with a foin
of his spear, throughout the body more
than a fathom. And when Sir Mordred
felt that he had his death wound, he
thrust himself with all the might that he
had up to the end of King Arthur's spear.
And right so he smote his father Arthur
with his sword, that he held in both his
hands, on the side of the head, that the
sword pierced the helmet and the brain-
pan. And therewith Sir Mordred fell
down stark dead to the earth, and the
noble King Arthur fell in a swoon to the
earth, and there he swooned oftentimes.
And Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere often-
times heaved him up, and so weakly they
laid him between them both unto a little
chapel, not far from the sea-side. And
when the King was there, he thought him
well eased. Then heard they people cry
in the field. "Now go thou, Sir Lucan,"
said the King, "and do me to wit what
betokeneth that noise in the field." So
Sir Lucan departed, and he was grievously
wounded in many places; and so, as he
went, he saw and hearkened by the moon-
light, how the pilfers and robbers were
come into the field, for to pilfer and rob
many a noble knight of broaches and
beads, of many a good ring, and of many
a rich jewel. And who that were not
dead all out, there they slew them for to
have their harness, and their riches. And
when Sir Lucan understood this work, he
came unto the King as soon as he might,
and told him all that he had heard and
seen. "Therefore, by mine advice," said
Sir Lucan, "it is best that we bring you
unto some town." "I would it were so,"
said the King.
"Bux I may not stand, my head acheth
so. Ah! Sir Launcelot," said King Ar-
thur, "this same day have I sore missed
thee; alas! that ever I was against thee,
for now have I my death, whereof Sir
Gawaine warned me in my dream." Then
Sir Lucan took up King Arthur on the
one part, and Sir Bedivere on the other
part, and in the lifting the King swooned.
And Sir Lucan fell in a swoon with that
EPIC AND ROMANCE
lift, that therewith the noble knight's
heart burst. And when King Arthur
came to himself again, he beheld Sir
Lucan how he lay foaming at the mouth.
"Alas!" said King Arthur, "this is unto
me a full heavy sight for to see this noble
duke so to die for my sake; for he would
have holpen me, that had more need of
help than I have. Alas! he would not
complain him, his heart was so set for to
help me. Now, Jesu, have mercy upon
his soul." Then Sir Bedivere wept for
the death of his brother. "Leave this
weeping and mourning," said King Arthur,
"for all this will not avail me; for wit
thou well I might live myself, the death
of Sir Lucan would grieve me evermore.
But my time hieth fast," said King Arthur
unto Sir Bedivere, "therefore take thou
Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it
unto yonder water-side; and when thou
comest there, I charge thee, throw my
sword into that water, and come again and
tell me what thou shalt see there." "My
lord," said Sir Bedivere, "your command
shall be done, and lightly bring you word
again." And so Sir Bedivere departed,
and by the way he beheld that noble
sword, where the pommel and the haft
were all of precious stones. And then he
said to himself, " If I throw this rich sword
into the water, thereof shall never come
good, but harm and loss." And then
Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree,
and as soon as he might, he came again
unto King Arthur, and said he had been
at the water, and had thrown the sword
into the water. "What sawest thou
there?" said the King. "Sir," said he,
"I saw nothing but waves and wind."
"That is untruly said of thee," said King
Arthur, "therefore go thou lightly and do
my command, as thou art to me life and
dear, spare not but throw it in." Then
Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the
sword in his hand; and then he thought it
sin and shame to throw away that noble
sword: and so after he hid the sword, and
returned again, and told to the King that
he had been at the water and done his
command. "What saw ye there?" said
the King. "Sir," said he, "I saw nothing
but the water lap and waves wan. " " Ah !
traitor, untrue," said King Arthur, "now
hast thou betrayed me two times, who
would have weened that thou that hast
been unto me so self and dear, and thou
art named a noble knight, and wouldest
betray me for the rich sword. But now
go again lightly, for thy long tarrying
putteth me in great jeopardy of my life,
for I have taken cold; and but if thou do
as I command thee, and if ever I may see
thee, I shall slay thee with mine own
hands, for thou wouldest for my rich
sword see me dead." Then Sir Bedivere
departed, and went to the sword, and
lightly took it up and went to the water's
side, and there he bound the girdle about
the hilts. And then he threw the sword
into the water as far as he might, and there
came an arm and a hand above the water,
and met it and caught it, and so shook it
thrice and brandished. And then the
hand vanished away with the sword in the
water.
So Sir Bedivere came again to the King,
and told him what he had seen. "Alas!"
said the King, "help me from hence;
for I dread me I have tarried over long."
Then Sir Bedivere took King Arthur
upon his back, and so went with him to the
water's side; and, when they were at the
water's side, even fast by the bank hovered
a little barge, with many fair ladies in it:
and among them all was a queen, and all
they had black hoods; and they wept and
shrieked when they saw King Arthur.
"Now put me into the barge," said the
King. And so he did softly, and there
received him three queens with great
mourning; and so these three queens sat
them down, and in one of their laps King
Arthur laid his head. And then that
queen said, "Ah! dear brother, why have
ye tarried so long from me? Alas! this
wound on your head hath taken overmuch
cold." And so then they rowed from the
land; and Sir Bedivere beheld all those
ladies go from him. Then Sir Bedivere
cried, "Ah! my lord Arthur, what shall
become of me now ye go from me, and
leave me here alone among mine ene-
mies?" "Comfort thyself," said King
100
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Arthur, "and do as well as thou mayest;
for in me is no trust for to trust in: for I
will into the vale of Avallon, for to heal
me of my grievous wound; and, if thou
never hear more of me, pray for my soul."
But evermore the queens and the ladies
wept and shrieked, that it was pitiful for
to hear them: and, as soon as Sir Bedivere
had lost the sight of the barge, he wept
and wailed, and so took the forest, and
so he went all the night; and, in the morn-
ing, he was aware, between two hills, of a
chapel and a hermitage.
VI
THEN was Sir Bedivere glad, and thither
he went; and, when he came into the
chapel, he saw where lay a hermit grovel-
ling upon all fours there, fast by a tomb
newly graven. When the hermit saw Sir
Bedivere he knew him well; for he was, but
a little before, Bishop of Canterbury, that
Sir Mordred had banished away. "Sir,"
said Sir Bedivere, "what man is there
buried that ye pray so fast for?" "My
fair son," said the hermit, "I wot not
verily but by deeming; but this night, at
midnight, here came a great number of
ladies, which brought this dead corpse,
and prayed me to bury him; and here they
offered a hundred tapers, and gave me a
hundred besants." " Alas ! " said Sir Bedi-
vere, "that was my lord, King Arthur,
that here lieth buried in this chapel."
Then Sir Bedivere swooned; and, when he
awoke, he prayed the hermit that he might
abide with him here still, to live with
fasting and prayers; "For from hence will
I never go," said Sir Bedivere, "by my
will; but all the days of my life here to
pray for my lord, King Arthur." "Ye
are welcome to me," said the hermit; "for
I know you better than ye ween that I do :
for ye are that bold Bedivere, and the
noble duke Sir Lucan, the butler, was your
own brother."
Then Sir Bedivere told the hermit all as
ye heard before. So Sir Bedivere abode
there still with the hermit, which had been
before the Bishop of Canterbury: and there
Sir Bedivere put upon him poor clothes,
and served the hermit full lowly in fasting
and in prayers. This of King Arthur I
find no more written in my copy of the
certainty of his death: but thus was he
led away in a barge, wherein were three
queens: that one was King Arthur's sister,
Morgan le Fay; the other was the Queen
of Northgalis; and the third was the Queen
of the Waste Lands. And there was
Nimue, the chief Lady of the Lake, which
had wedded Sir Pelleas, the good knight.
And this lady had done much for King
Arthur; for she would never suffer Sir
Pelleas to be in any place whereas he
should be in danger of his life: and so he
lived to the uttermost of his days with her
in great rest. More of the death of King
Arthur could I never find, but that ladie?
brought him unto the burials. And such
one was buried here, that the hermit bare
witness, that sometimes was Bishop of
Canterbury: but yet the hermit knew not
of a certain that it was verily the body of
King Arthur. For this tale Sir Bedivere,
knight of the Round Table, made it plainly
to be written.
VII
SOME men yet say, in many parts of
England, that King Arthur is not dead;
but had by the will of our Lord Jesu Christ
into another place: and men say that he
will come again, and he shall win the holy
cross. I will not say that it shall be so;
but rather I will say, that here in this world
he changed his life. But many men say
that there is written upon his tomb this
verse: —
Hie jacet Arthurus rex quondam, rexque
futurus.
Thus leave we here Sir Bedivere with
the hermit, that dwelled that time in a
chapel beside Glastonbury, and there was
his hermitage; and so they lived in prayers,
and fastings, and great abstinence.
n
NARRATIVE POETRY
ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)
IAM O'SHANTER
A TALE
Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke.
— GAWIN DOUGLAS.
WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet
As market-days are wearing late
And folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousin at the nappy
And gettin fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses.)
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roarin fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that, late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in
Boon;
Or catch't wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthened sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale: — Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezin finely,
Wi' reamin swats that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious
Wi' secret favors, sweet, and precious:
The souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy:
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleas-
ure;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was
glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white — then melts forever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether tune or tide:
The hour approaches Tam maun ride, —
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-
stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
101
102
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
The wind blew as 't wad blown its last;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, —
A better never lifted leg, —
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind and rain and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots son-
net,
Whiles glowrin round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares.
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikie stane,
Whare drucken Charlie brak 's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder 'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze :
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou can'st make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tarn saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillon brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels
Put life and mettle in their heels:
A winnock bunker in the east,
There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge;
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. —
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip sleight
Each in its cauld hand held a light,
By which heroic Tarn was able
To note upon the haly table
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns,
A thief, new-cutted frae the rape —
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled;
Whom his ain son o' life bereft —
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious.
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious1
The piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they
cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit
And coost her duddies to the wark
And linket at it in her sark!
Now Tarn, O Tarn! had thae been
queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw- white seven teen hunder linen! —
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an' flinging on a crummock,
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.
But Tarn ken'd what was what fu*
brawlie;
There was ae winsom wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core
(Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore:
NARRATIVE POETRY
103
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear) ;
Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little kent thy reverend grannie,
That sark she cof t for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('t was a' her riches),
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r,
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jad she was and strang),
And how Tarn stood like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.
Ah, Tarn! ah, Tarn! thou'llgetthy fairin!
In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig:
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle —
Ae spring brought aff her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man, and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare.
(i793)
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824)
Byron was a man whose whole life and character seemed made up of spectacular contrasts. He was
a poet and a peer; an aristocrat, proud as Satan, yet passionately devoted to justice and liberty; in poetic
theory opposed to romanticism; in his life, and much of his poetry, wildly romantic; to the casual ob-
server, merely theatrical; looked at closely, truly and deeply sincere.
DON JUAN
FROM CANTO U
"Don Juan" is a long poem, an unfinished mock epic, in which Byron strangely mingles romance with
realism, turning with disconcerting ease and swiftness from pure pathos and wild beauty to pungent
satire and brutal fact. The hero is a young scapegrace sent upon his travels by a doting mother who
thinks thus to save him from evil influences. He is shipwrecked upon a Turkish island, and thereafter
undergoes many strange experiences.
The account of the shipwreck, in Byron's most realistic style, is built upon the poet's own familiarity
with the sea, supplemented by a wide reading of accounts of shipwreck, and of his grandfather Vice-
Admiral Byron's narrative of a voyage around the world.
'Twas for a voyage that the young man
was meant,
As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark,
To wean him from the wickedness of
earth,
And send him like a dove of promise forth.
VIII
BUT to our tale: the Donna Inez sent
Her son to Cadiz only to embark :
To stay there had not answer'd her intent,
But why?— we leave the reader in the dark—
104
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
IX
Don Juan bade his valet pack his things
According to direction, then received
A lecture and some money: for four
springs
He was to travel; and though Inez grieved
(As every kind of parting has its stings),
She hoped he would improve — perhaps
believed:
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it)
Of good advice — and two or three of
credit.
x
In the mean time, to pass her hours away,
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school
For naughty children, who would rather
play
(Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool;
Infants of three years old were taught that
day,
Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool:
The great success of Juan's education,
Spurr'd her to teach another generation.
XI
Juan embark'd — the ship got under way,
The wind was fair, the water passing
rough;
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,
As I, who've cross'd it oft, know well
enough ;
And, standing upon deck, the dashing
spray
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-
tough:
And there he stood to take, and take again,
His first — perhaps his last — farewell of
Spain.
xn
I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters; it unmans one quite,
Especially when life is rather new:
I recollect Great Britain's coast looks
white,
But almost every other country's blue,
When gazing on them, mystified by dis-
tance,
We enter on our nautical existence.
XIII
So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck:
The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and
sailors swore,
And the ship creak'd, the town became
a speck,
From which away so fair and fast they
bore.
The best of remedies is a beef-steak
Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before
You sneer, and I assure you this is true,
For I have found it answer — so may you.
XIV
Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the
stern,
Beheld his native Spain receding far:
First partings form a lesson hard to learn,
Even nations feel this when they go to war ;
There is a sort of unexprest concern,
A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar:
At leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the
steeple.
xv
But Juan had got many things to leave,
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife,
So that he had much better cause to grieve
Than many persons more advanced in life;
And if we now and then a sigh must heave
At quitting even those we quit in strife,
No doubt we weep for those the heart
endears —
That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.
XVI
So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion:
I'd weep, — but mine is not a weeping
Muse,
And such light griefs are not a thing to
die on;
Young men should travel, if but to amuse
Themselves; and the next time tb**w
servants tie on
NARRATIVE POETRY
105
Behind their carriages their new port-
manteau,
Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.
XVII
And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and
thought,
While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt
sea,
"Sweets to the sweet;" (I like so much to
quote;
You must excuse this extract, — 't is
where she,
The queen of Denmark, for Ophelia
brought
Flowers to the grave;) and, sobbing often,
he
Reflected on his present situation,
And seriously resolved on reformation.
XVIII
"Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!" he
cried,
"Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,
Of its own thirst to see again thy shore:
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters
glide!
Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er,
Farewell, too, dearest Julia! (here
he drew
Her letter out again, and read it through.)
XIX
"And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear —
But that's impossible, and cannot be —
Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,
Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!
Or think of any thing excepting thee;
A mind diseased no remedy can physic —
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew
sea-sick.)
xx
"Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he
fell sicker)
Oh, Julia! what is every other woe? —
(For God's sake let me have a glass of
liquor;
Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)
Julia, my love! — (you rascal, Pedro,
quicker !) —
Oh, Julia! — (this curst vessel pitches so) — •
Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!"
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)
XXI
He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,
Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,
Beyond the best apothecary's art,
The loss of love, the treachery of friends,
Or death of those we dote on, when a part
Of us dies with them as each fond hope
ends:
No doubt he would have been much more
pathetic,
But the sea acted as a strong emetic.
XXII
Love's a capricious power: I've known it
hold
Out through a lever caused \>y its own
heat,
But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,
And find a quinsy very hard to treat;
Against all noble maladies he's bold,
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh
Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.
XXIII
But worst of all is nausea, or a pain
About the lower region of the bowels;
Love, who heroically breathes a vein,
Shrinks from the application of hot towels,
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,
Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect,
how else
Could Juan's passion, while the billows
roar,
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?
XXIV
The ship, call'd the most holy "Trinidada"
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn;
For there the Spanish family Moncada
Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born:
io6
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
They were relations, and for them he had a
Letter of introduction, which the morn
Of his departure had been sent him by
His Spanish friends for those in Italy.
xxv
His suite consisted of three servants and
A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,
Who several languages did understand,
But now lay sick and speechless on his
pillow,
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for
land,
His headache being increased by every
billow;
And the waves oozing through the port-
hole made
His berth a little damp, and him afraid.
XXVI
'T was not without some reason, for the
wind
Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
And though 't was not much to a naval
mind,
Some landsmen would have look'd a little
pale,
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
At sunset they began to take in sail,
For the sky show'd it would come on to
blow,
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.
XXVII
At one o'clock the wind with sudden
shift
Threw the ship right into the trough of the
sea,
Which struck her aft, and made an awk-
ward rift,
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the
Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she
could lift
Herself from out her present jeopardy,
The rudder tore away: 't was time to
sound
The pumps, and there were four feet water
found.
XXVIII
One gang of people instantly was put
Upon the pumps, and the remainder set
To get up part of the cargo, and what not;
But they could not come at the leak as yet;
At last they did get at it really, but
Still their salvation was an even bet:
The water rush'd through in a way quite
puzzling,
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets,
bales of muslin,
XXIX
Into the opening; but all such ingredients
Would have been vain, and they must
have gone down,
Despite of all their efforts and expedients,
But for the pumps: I'm glad to make
them known
To all the brother tars who may have need
hence,
For fifty tons of water were up thrown
By them per hour, and they had all been
undone,
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.
xxx
As day advanced the weather seem'd to
abate,
And then the leak they reckon 'd to reduce,
And keep the ship afloat, though three
feet yet
Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in
use.
The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late
A squall came on, and while some guns
broke loose,
A gust — which all descriptive power trans-
cends—
Laid with one blast the ship on her beam
ends.
XXXI
There she lay, motionless, and seem'd up-
set;
The water left the hold, and wash'd the
decks,
And made a scene men do not soon forget,
For they remember battles, fires, ana
wrecks,
NARRATIVE POETRY
107
Or any other thing that brings regret,
Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads,
or necks:
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the
divers,
And swimmers, who may chance to be
survivors.
XXXII
Immediately the masts were cut away,
Both main and mizen; first the mizen
went,
The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still
lay
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent.
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and
they
Eased her at last (although we never
meant
To part with all till every hope was
blighted),
And then with violence the old ship
righted.
xxxm
It may be easily supposed, while this
Was going on, some people were unquiet,
That passengers would find it much amiss
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their
diet;
That even the able seaman, deeming his
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to
riot,
As upon such occasions tars will ask
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from
the cask.
xxxiv
There's nought, no doubt, so much the
spirit calms
As rum and true religion: thus it was,
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some
sung psalms,
The high wind made the treble, and as bass
The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright
cured the qualms
Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick
maws:
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, de-
votion,
Clamor'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.
xxxv
Perhaps more mischief had been done,
but for
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his
years,
Got to the spirit-room, and stood before
It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,
As if Death were more dreadful by his
door
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears,
Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they
sunk,
Thought it would be becoming to die
drunk.
xxxvi
"Give us more grog," they cried, "for it
will be
All one an hour hence." Juan answer 'd,
"No!
'T is true that death awaits both you and
me,
But let us die like men, not sink below
Like brutes:" — and thus his dangerous
post kept he,
And none liked to anticipate the blow;
And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor,
Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.
XXXVII
The good old gentleman was quite aghast,
And made a loud and pious lamentation;
Repented all his sins, and made a last
Irrevocable vow of reformation;
Nothing should tempt him more (this
peril past)
To quit his academic occupation,
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,
To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca.
XXXVIII
But now there came a flash of hope once
more;
Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the masts
were gone,
The leak increased; shoals round her, but
no shore,
The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.
io8
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
They tried the pumps again, and though
before
Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless
grown,
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to
bale—
The stronger pump'd, the weaker
thrumm'd a sail.
xxxix
Under the vessel's keel the sail was past,
And for the moment it had some effect;
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast,
Nor rag of canvas, what could they ex-
pect?
But still 't is best to struggle to the last,
'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd:
And though 't is true that man can only
die once,
'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.
XL
There winds and waves had hurl'd them,
and from thence,
Without their will, they carried them
away;
For they were forced with steering to dis-
pense,
And never had as yet a quiet day
On which they might repose, or even
commence
A jurymast or rudder, or could say
The ship would swim an hour, which, by
good luck,
Still swam — though not exactly like a
duck.
XLI
The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less,
But the ship labor'd so, they scarce could
hope
To weather out much longer; the distress
Was also great with which they had to cope
For want of water, and their solid mess
Was scant enough: in vain the telescope
Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in
sight,
Nought but the heavy sea, and coming
night.
XLH
Again the weather threaten'd, — again
blew
A gale, and in the fore and after hold
Water appear'd; yet, though the people
knew
All this, the most were patient, and some
bold,
Until the chains and leathers were worn
through
Of all our pumps: — a wreck complete she
roll'd,
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
Like human beings during civil war.
XLHI
Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
In his rough eyes, and told the captain, he
Could do no more : he was a man in years,
And long had voyaged through many a
stormy sea,
And if he wept at length, they were not
fears
That made his eyelids as a woman's be,
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and chil-
dren,
Two things for dying people quite be-
wildering.
XLIV
The ship was evidently settling now
Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone,
Some went to prayers again, and made a
vow
Of candles to their saints — but there were
none
To pay them with; and some look'd o'er
the bow;
Some hoisted out the boats; and there was
one
That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution,
Who told him to be damn'd — in his con-
fusion.
XLV
Some lash'd them in their hammocks; some
put on
Their best clothes, as if going to a fair;
Some cursed the day on which they saw
the sun.
NARRATIVE POETRY
109
And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling,
tore their hair;
And others went on as they had begun,
Getting the boats out, being well aware
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea,
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.
XL VI
The worst of all was, that in their condi-
tion,
Having been several days in great dis-
tress,
'T was difficult to get out such provision
As now might render their long suffering
less:
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;
Their stock was damaged by the weather's
stress:
Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter,
Were all that could be thrown into the
cutter.
XLVH
But in the long-boat they contrived to stow
Some pounds of bread, though injured by
the wet;
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so;
Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to
get
A portion of their beef up from below,
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met,
But scarce enough to serve them for a
luncheon —
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a
puncheon.
XLvm
The other boats, the yawl and pinnace,
had
Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
As there were but two blankets for a sail,
And one oar for a mast, which a young
lad
Threw in by good luck over the ship's
rail;
And two boats could not hold, far less be
stored,
To save one half the people then on board.
XLIX
'T was twilight, and the sunless day went
down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose
the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was
shown,
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,
And the dim desolate deep: twelve days
had Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was
here.
Some trial had been making at a raft,
With little hope in such a rolling sea,
A sort of thing at which one would have
laugh'd,
If any laughter at such times could be,
Unless with people who too much have
quaff'd,
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
Half epileptical, and half hysterical: —
Their preservation would have been a
miracle.
LI
At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-
coops, spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast
loose,
That still could keep afloat the struggling
tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great
use:
There was no light in heaven but a few
stars,
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their
crews;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And, going down head foremost — sunk,
in short.
LII
Then rose from sea to sky the wild fare-
well-
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the
brave, —
no
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful
yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a
hell,
And down she suck'd with her the whirling
wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
mi
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was
hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless
dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
LIV
The boats, as stated, had got off before,
And in them crowded several of the
crew;
And yet their present hope was hardly
more
Than what it had been, for so strong it
blew
There was slight chance of reaching any
shore;
And then they were too many, though so
few —
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,
Were counted in them when they got
afloat.
LV
All the rest perish'd; near two hundred
souls
Had left their bodies; and what's worse,
alas!
When over Catholics the ocean rolls,
They must wait several weeks before a
mass
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,
Because, till people know what's come to
pass,
They won't lay out their money on the
dead —
It costs three francs for every mass that's
said.
LVI
Juan got into the long-boat, and there
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;
It seem'd as if they had exchanged their
care,
For Juan wore the magisterial face
Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's
pair
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case:
Battista, though, (a name call'd shortly
Tita)
Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.
LVH
Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,
But the same cause, conducive to his loss,
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the
wave
As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross,
And so he found a wine-and- watery grave;
They could not rescue him although so
close,
Because the sea ran higher every minute,
And for the boat — the crew kept crowding
in it.
LVIII
A small old spaniel, — which had been Don
Jose's,
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may
think,
For on such things the memory reposes
With tenderness — stood howling on the
brink,
Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual
noses!)
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;
And Juan caught him up, and ere he
stepp'd
Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.
LIX
He also stuff'd his money where he could
About his person, and Pedrillo's too,
Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,
Not knowing what himself to say, or do,
NARRATIVE POETRY
As every rising wave his dread renew'd;
But Juan, trusting they might still get
through,
And deeming there were remedies for any
ill,
Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.
LX
'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly
yet,
That the sail was becalm'd between the
seas,
Though on the wave's high top too much
to set,
They dared not take it in for all the
breeze :
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept
them wet,
And made them bale without a moment's
ease,
So that themselves as well as hopes were
damp'd,
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.
LXI
Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat
still
Kept above water, with an oar for mast,
Two blankets stitch'd together, answering
ill
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast:
Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill,
And present peril all before surpass'd,
They grieved for those who perish' d with
the cutter,
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.
LXH
The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign
Of the continuance of the gale: to run
Before the sea until it should grow fine,
Was all that for the present could be done:
A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and
wine
Were served out to the people, who begun
To fault, and damaged bread wet through
the bags,
And most of them had little clothe* but
rags.
Lxm
They counted thirty, crowded in a space
Which left scarce room for motion or
exertion ;
They did their best to modify their case,
One half sate up, though numb'd with the
immersion,
While t' other half were laid down in their
place,
At watch and watch; thus, shivering like
the tertian
Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat,
With nothing but the sky for a great coat.
LXIV
'T is very certain the desire of life
Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians,
When patients, neither plagued with
friends nor wife,
Survive through very desperate condi-
tions,
Because they still can hope, nor shines the
knife
Nor shears of Atropos before their vis
ions:
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men's miseries of alarming
brevity.
LXV
'T is said that persons living on annuities
Are longer lived than others, — God knows
why,
Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so
true it is,
That some, I really think, do never die;
Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,
And that's their mode of furnishing supply:
In my young days they lent me cash that
way,
Which I found very troublesome to pay.
LXVI
'T is thus with people in an open boat,
They live upon the love of life, and bear
More than can be believed, or even thought,
And stand like rocks the tempest's wear
and tear;
£12
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
And hardship still has been the sailor's lot,
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and
there;
She had a curious crew as well as cargo,
Like the first old Greek privateer, the
"Argo."
Lxvn
But man is a carnivorous production,
And must have meals, at least one meal a
day;
He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon
suction,
But, like the shark and tiger, must have
prey;
Although his anatomical construction
Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way,
Your laboring people think beyond all
question,
Beaf, veal, and mutton, better for di-
gestion.
Lxvni
And thus it was with this our hapless crew;
For on the third day there came on a calm,
And though at first their strength it
might renew,
And lying on their weariness like balm,
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the
blue
Of ocean, when they woke they felt a
qualm,
And fell all ravenously on their provision,
Instead of hoarding it with due precision.
LXIX
The consequence was easily foreseen —
They ate up all they had and drank their
wine,
In spite of all remonstrances, and then
On what, in fact, next day were they to
dine?
They hoped the wind would rise, these
foolish men!
And carry them to shore; these hopes were
fine,
But as they had but one oar, and that
brittle,
It would have been more wise to save their
victual.
LXX
The fourth day came, but not a breath of
air,
And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd
child:
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating
there,
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and
mild —
With their one oar (I wish they had had a
pair)
What could they do? and hunger's rage
grew wild:
So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating,
Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present
eating.
LXXI
On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,
And Juan, who had still refused, because
The creature was his father's dog that died.
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,
With some remorse received (though first
denied)
As a great favor one of the fore-paws,
Which he divided with Pedrillo, who
Devour'd it, longing for the other too.
LXXII
The seventh day, and no wind — the burn-
ing sun
Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on
the sea,
They lay like carcasses; and hope was
none,
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely
They glared upon each other — all was
done,
Water, and wine, and food, — and you
might see
The longings of the cannibal arise
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish
eyes.
Lxxin
At length one whisper'd his companion,
who
Whisper'd another, and thus it went
round,
And then into a hoarser murmur grew,
NARRATIVE POETRY
An ominous, and wild, and desperate
sound;
And when his comrade's thought each
sufferer knew,
'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he
found:
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and
blood,
And who should die to be his fellow's food.
LXXIV
But ere they came to this, they that day
shared
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd
of shoes;
And then they look'd around them and
despair'd,
And none to be the sacrifice would choose;
At length the lots were torn up, and pre-
pared,
But of materials that much shock the
Muse —
Having no paper, for the want of better,
They took by force from Juan Julia's
letter.
LXXV
The lots were made, and mark'd, and
mix'd, and handed,
In silent horror, and their distribution
Lull'd even the savage hunger which
demanded,
Like the Promethean vulture, this pollu-
tion;
None in particular had sought or plann'd
it,
'T was nature gnaw'd them to this reso-
lution,
By which none were permitted to be
neuter —
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.
LXXVI
He but requested to be bled to death:
The surgeon had his instruments, and
bled
Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath,
You hardly could perceive when he was
dead.
He died as born, a Catholic in faith,
Like most in the belief in which they 're
bred,
And first a little crucifix he kiss'd,
And then held out his jugular and wrist.
LXXVHI
The sailors ate him, all save three or four,
Who were not quite so fond of animal food;
To these was added Juan, who, before
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could
Feel now his appetite increased much
more;
'T was not to be expected that he should,
Even in extremity of their disaster,
Dine with them on his pastor and his
master.
LXXIX
'T was better that he did not; for, in fact,
The consequence was awful in the ex-
treme;
For they, who were most ravenous in the
act.
Went raging mad — Lord! how they did
blaspheme!
And foam and roll, with strange convul-
sions rack'd,
Drinking salt-water like a mountain-
stream,
Tearing, and grinning, howling, screech-
ing, swearing,
And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing.
LXXX
Their numbers were much thinn'd by this
infliction,
And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven
knows;
And some of them had lost their recollec-
tion,
Happier than they who still perceived
their woes;
But others ponder 'd on a new dissection,
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those
Who had already perish'd, suffering madly,
For having used their appetites so sadly.
114
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
LXXXH
Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd,
But was used sparingly, — some were
afraid,
And others still their appetites constraint,
Or but at times a little supper made;
All except Juan, who throughout ab-
stain'd,
Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some
lead:
At length they caught two boobies, and
a noddy,
And then they left off eating the dead
body.
LXXXIII
And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be,
Remember Ugolino condescends
To eat the head of his arch-enemy
The moment after he politely ends
His tale : if foes be food in hell, at sea
'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends,
When shipwreck's short allowance grows
too scanty,
Without being much more horrible than
Dante.
LXXXIV
And the same night there fell a shower of
rain,
For which their mouths gaped, like the
cracks of earth
When dried to summer dust; till taught
by pain,
Men really know not what good water's
worth;
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your
berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a
well.
LXXXV
It pour'd down torrents, but they were not
richer
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet,
Which served them as a sort of spongy
pitcher,
And when they deem'd its moisture was
complete,
They wrung it out, and though a thirsty
ditcher
Might not have thought the scanty draught
so sweet
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking
They ne'er till now had known the joys
of drinking.
LXXXVI
And their baked lips, with many a bloody
crack,
Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar
stream'd:
Their throats were ovens, their swoln
tongues were black,
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly
scream'd
To beg the beggar, who could not rain
back
A drop of dew, when every drop had
seem'd
To taste of heaven — If this be true,
indeed,
Some Christians have a comfortable
creed.
LXXXVTI
There were two fathers in this ghastly
crew,
And with them their two sons, of whom
the one
Was more robust and hardy to the view,
But he died early; and when he was gone,
His nearest messmate told his sire, who
threw
One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's
will be done !
I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown
Into the deep without a tear or groan.
LXXXVIII
The other father had a weaklier child,
Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate;
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
And patient spirit held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he
smiled,
As if to win a part from off the weight
NARRATIVE POETRY
He saw increasing on his father's heart,
With the deep deadly thought, that they
must part.
LXXXIX
And o'er him bent his sire, and never
raised
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the
foam
From his pale lips, and ever on him
gazed,
And when the wish'd-for shower at length
was come,
And the boy's eyes, which the dull film
half glazed,
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to
roam,
He squeezed from out a rag some drops
of rain
Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain.
xc
The boy expired — the father held the
clay,
And look'd upon it long, and when at
last
Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen
lay
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were
past,
He watch'd it wistfully, until away
'T was borne by the rude wave wherein
't was cast;
Then he himself sunk down all dumb and
shivering,
And gave no sign of life, save his limbs
quivering.
xci
Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the
dark sea,
Resting its bright base on the quivering
blue;
And all within its arch appear'd to be
Clearer than that without, and its wide
hue
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner
free,
Then changed like to a bow that's bent,
and then
Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd
men.
xcn
It changed, of course; a heavenly cameleon,
The airy child of vapor and the sun,
Brought forth in purple, cradled in ver-
milion,
Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in
dun,
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's
pavilion,
And blending every color into one,
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle
(For sometimes we must box without the
muffle).
xcm
Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a
good omen —
It is as well to think so, now and then;
'T was an old custom of the Greek and
Roman,
And may become of great advantage
when
Folks are discouraged; and most surely no
men
Had greater need to nerve themselves
again
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd
like hope —
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.
xcrv
About this time a beautiful white bird,
Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size
And plumage (probably it might have
err'd
Upon its course), pass'd oft before their
eyes,
And tried to perch, although it saw and
heard
The men within the boat, and in this
guise
It came and went, and flutter'd round
them till
Night fell: — this seem'd a better omen
still.
n6
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
xcv
But in this case I also must remark,
'T was well this bird of promise did not
perch,
Because the tackle of our shatter'd
bark
Was not so safe for roosting as a church;
And had it been the dove from Noah's
ark,
Returning there from her successful
search,
Which in their way that moment chanced
to fall,
They would have eat her, olive-branch
and all.
xcvi
With twilight it again came on to
blow,
But not with violence; the stars shone
out,
The boat made way; yet now they were
so low,
They knew not where nor what they were
about;
Some fancied they saw land, and some
said "No!"
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause
to doubt —
Some swore that they heard breakers,
others guns,
And all mistook about the latter once.
xcvn
As morning broke, the light wind died
away,
When he who had the watch sung out
and swore,
If 'twas not land that rose with the
sun's ray,
He wish'd that land he never might see
more;
And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw
a bay,
Or thought they saw, and shaped their
course for shore;
For shore it was, and gradually grew
Distinct, and high and palpable to view.
xcvni
And then of these some part burst into
tears,
And others, looking with a stupid stare,
Could not yet separate their hopes from
fears,
And seem'd as if they had no further
care;
While a few pray'd — (the first time for
some years) —
And at the bottom of the boat three
were
Asleep; they shooK. them by the hand
and head,
And tried to awaken them, but found them
dead.
xcrx
The day before, fast sleeping on the
water,
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill
kind,
And by good fortune, gliding softly,
caught her,
Which yielded a day's life, and to their
mind
Proved even still a more nutritious mat-
ter,
Because it left encouragement behind:
They thought that in such perils, more
than chance
Had sent them this for their deliverance.
The land appear'd a high and rocky
coast,
And higher grew the mountains as they
drew,
Set by a current, toward it: they were
lost
In various conjectures, for none knew
To what part of the earth they had been
tost,
So changeable had been the winds that
blew;
Some thought it was Mount ^Etna, some
the highlands
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other
islands.
NARRATIVE POETRY
117
ci
Meantime the current, with a rising gale,
Still set them onwards to the welcome
shore,
Like Charon's bark of specters, dull and
pale:
Their living freight was now reduced to
four,
And three dead, whom their strength
could not avail
To heave into the deep with those before,
Though the two sharks still follow'd
them, and dash'd
The spray into their faces as they splash'd.
en
Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat
had done
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd
them to
Such things a mother had not known her
son
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew:
By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus
one by one
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few,
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter,
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.
CHI
As they drew nigh the land, which now
was seen
Unequal in its aspect here and there,
They felt the freshness of its growing green,
That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd
the air,
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a
screen
From glistening waves, and skies so hot
and bare —
Lovely seem'd any object that should
sweep
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep.
civ
The shore look'd wild, without a trace of
man,
And girt by formidable waves; but they
Were mad for land, and thus their course
they ran.
Though right ahead the roaring breakers
lay:
A reef between them also now began
To show its boiling surf and bounding
spray,
But finding no place for their landing
better,
They ran the boat for shore, — and over-
set her.
cv
But hi his native stream, the Guadalquivir,
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont;
And having learnt to swim in that sweet
river,
Had often turn'd the art to some account:
A better swimmer you could scarce see
ever,
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Helles-
pont,
As once (a feat on which ourselves we
prided)
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.
cvi
So here, though faint, emaciated, and
stark,
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove
to ply
With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was
dark,
The beach which lay before him, high
and dry:
The greatest danger here was from a shark,
That carried off his neighbor by the thigh ;
As for the other two, they could not swim,
So nobody arrived on shore but him.
cvn
Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar,
Which, providentially for him, was wash'd
Just as his feeble arms could strike no more
And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as
't was dash'd
Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore
The waters beat while he thereto was
lash'd;
At last, with swimming, wading, scramb-
ling, he
Roll'd on the beach, half senseless, fror*
the sea:
n8
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
CVIII
There, breathless, with his digging nails
he clung
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave
From whose reluctant roar his life he
wrung,
Should suck him back to her insatiate
grave:
And there he lay, full length, where he
was flung,
Before the entrance of a cliffworn cave,
With just enough of life to feel its pain,
And deem that it was saved, perhaps in
vain.
(1819)
ALFRED TENNYSON (1809-1892)
THE "REVENGE"
A BALLAD OF THE FLEET
AT FLORES in the Azores Sir Richard
Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came
flying from far away;
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have
sighted fifty-three!"
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: " 'Fore
God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships
are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly,
but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight
with fifty-three?"
n
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I
know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with
them again.
But I 've ninety men and more that are
lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left
them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devil-
doms of Spaip."
ni
So Lord Howard passed away with five
ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent
summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick
men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down
below:
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they
were not left to Spain,
To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the
glory of the Lord.
IV
He had only a hundred seamen to work
the ship and to fight
And he sailed away from Flores till the
Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the
weather bow.
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There '11 be little of us left by the time this
sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all
good English men.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the
children of the devil,
For I never turned my back upon Don or
devil yet."
Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we
roared a hurrah, and so
The little "Revenge" ran on sheer into the
heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and
her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half
to the left were seen,
And the little "Revenge" ran on through
the long sea-lane between.
NARRATIVE POETRY
VI
Thousands of their soldiers looked down
from their decks and laughed,
Thousands of their seamen made mock at
the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delayed
By their mountain-like "San Philip" that,
of fifteen hundred tons,
And up-shadowing high above us with her
yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails, and we
stayed.
VII
And while now the great "San Philip"
hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud,
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon
the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them
all.
VIII
But anon the great "San Philip," she be-
thought herself and went,
Having that within her womb that had
left her ill content;
And the rest they came aboard us, and
they fought us hand to hand,
For a dozen times they came with their
pikes and musqueteers,
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a
dog that shakes his ears
When he leaps from the water to the land.
IX
And the sun went down, and the stars
came out far over the summer sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the
one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their
high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with
her battle-thunder and flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew
back with her dead and her shame.
For some were sunk and many were shat-
tered, and so could fight us no
more —
God of battles, was ever a battle like this
in the world before?
For he said, "Fight on! fight on!"
Though his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short
summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left
the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing
it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the
side and the head,
And he said, "Fight on! fight on!"
XI
And the night went down, and the sun
smiled out far over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay
round us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for
they feared that we still could sting,
So they watched what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maimed for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the
desperate strife;
And the sick men down in the hold were
most of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and
the powder was all of it spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying
over the side;
But Sir Richard cried hi his English pride:
"We have fought such a fight for a day
and a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die — does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink
her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the
hands of Spain!"
I2O
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
XII
And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the
seamen made reply:
"We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we
yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again and to strike
another blow."
And the lion thete lay dying, and they
yielded to the foe.
xni
And the stately Spanish men to their flag-
ship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir
Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his face with their
courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a
valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man is
bound to do.
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Gren-
villedie!"
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
XIV
And they stared at the dead that had been
so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of
Spam so cheap
That he dared her with one little ship and
his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for
aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honor down
into the deep,
And" they manned the "Revenge" with a
swarthier alien crew,
And away she sailed with her loss and
longed for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had
ruined awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave and the
weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great
gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised
by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails
and their masts and their flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the
shot-shattered navy of Spain,
And the little "Revenge" herself went down
by the island crags
To be lost evermore in the main.
(1878)
ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889)
HERVE RIEL
ON THE sea and at the Hogue. sixteen hun-
dred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French, — woe
to France!
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter
through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a
shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint
Malo on the Ranee,
With the English fleet in view.
ii
'T was the squadron that escaped, with the
victor in full chase;
First and foremost of the drove, in his
great ship, Damfreville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signaled to the place
"Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us
quick — or, quicker still,
Here's the English can and will!"
in
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk
and leapt on board;
"Why, what hope or chance have ships
like these to pass?" laughed they:
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the
passage scarred and scored,
Shall the "Formidable" here with her
twelve and eighty guns
Think to make the river-mouth by the
single narrow way,
Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft
of twenty tons,
NARRATIVE POETRY
121
And with flow at full beside?
Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!"
IV
Then was called a council straight.
Brief and bitter the debate:
"Here's the English at our heels; would
you have them take in tow
All that's left us of the fleet, linked to-
gether stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound?
Better run the ships aground!"
(Ended Damfreville his speech).
"Not a minute more to wait!
Let the Captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the
vessels on the beach!
France must undergo her fate.
"Give the word!" But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard;
For up stood, for out stepped, for in
struck amid all these
— A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate —
first, second, third?
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by
Tourville for the fleet,
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the
Croisickese.
VI
"What mockery or malice have we
here?" cried Herve Riel:
' ' Are you mad , you Malouins? Are you
cowards, fools, or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who
took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow,
every swell
'Twixt the offing here and Greve where
the river disembogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it
love the lying's for?
Morn and eve, night and day,
Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot
of Solidor.
Burn the fleet and ruin France? That
were worse than fifty Hogues!
Sirs, they know I speak the truth!
Sirs, believe me there's a way!
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this 'Formidable' clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them, most and least, by a
passage I know well,
Right to Solidor past Greve,
And there lay them safe and sound;
And if one ship misbehave,
— Keel so much as grate the ground,
Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my
head!" cries Herve Riel.
VII
Not a~minute more to wait.
"Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the
squadron!" cried its chief.
Captains, give the sailor place!
He is Admiral, in brief.
Still the north- wind, by God's grace!
See the noble fellow's face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were
the wide sea's profound!
See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock,
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that
grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past,
All are harbored to the last,
And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!"
— sure as fate,
Up the English come — too late!
VIII
So, the storm subsides to calm:
They see the green. trees wave
On the heights o'erlooking Greve.
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm
122
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
"Just our rapture to enhance,
Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance
As they cannonade away!
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding
on the Ranee!"
How hope succeeds despair on each Cap-
tain's countenance!
Out burst all with one accord,
"This is Paradise for Hell!
Let France, let France's King
Thank the man that did the thing!
What a shout, and all one word,
"Herve Riel!"
As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.
IX
Then said Damf reville, " My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard.
Praise is deeper than the lips:
You have saved the King his ships,
You must name your own reward.
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart's content and have! or my
name's not Damfreville."
Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,
Since on board the duty's done,
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point,
what is it but a run? —
Since 't is ask and have, I may —
Since the others go ashore —
Come! A good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call
the Belle Aurore!"
That he asked and that he got, — nothing
mora
XI
Name and deed alike are lost:
Not a pillar nor a post
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it
befell:
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing-smack,
In memory of the man but for whom had
gone to wrack
All that France saved from the fight
whence England bore the bell.
Go to Paris: rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre, face and flank!
You shall look long enough ere you come
to Herve Riel.
So, for better and for worse,
Herve Riel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once
more
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy
wife the Belle Aurore!
(1871)
MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888)
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM
AN EPISODE
AND the first gray of morning filled the
east,
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.
But all the Tartar camp along the stream
Was hushed, and still the men were
plunged in sleep;
Sohrab alone, he slept not: all night long
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;
But when the gray dawn stole into his
tent,
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his
sword,
And took his horseman's cloak, and left
his tent,
And went abroad into the cold wet fog,
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's
tent
Through the black Tartar tents he
passed, which stood
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat
strand
NARRATIVE POETRY
123
Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'er-
flow
When the sun melts the snows in high
Pamere:
Through the black tents he passed, o'er
that low strand,
And to a hillock came, a little back
From the stream's brink, the spot where
first a boat,
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the
land.
The men of former times had crowned the
top
With a clay fort: but that was falTn; and
now
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent,
A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were
spread.
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and
stood
Upon the thick-piled carpets in the tent,
And found the old man sleeping on his bed
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his
arms.
And Peran-Wisa heard him. though the
step
Was dulled; for he slept light, an old
man's sleep;
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:
"Who art thou? for it is not yet clear
dawn.
Speak! is there news, or any night alarm? "
But Sohrab came to the bedside, and
said:
"Thou knowest me, Peran-Wisa: it is I.
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe
Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,
In Samarcand, before the army marched;
And I will tell thee what my heart desires.
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan,
first
I came among the Tartars, and bore arms,
I have still served Afrasiab well, and
shown,
At my boy's years, the courage of a man.
This too thou know'st, that, while I still
bear on
The conquering Tartar ensigns through
the world,
And beat the Persians back on every field,
I see one man, one man, and one alone —
Rustum, my father; who, I hoped, should
greet,
Should one day greet, upon some well-
fought field,
His not unworthy, not inglorious son.
So I long hoped, but him I never find.
Come then, hear now, and grant me what
I ask.
Let the two armies rest to-day: but I
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian
lords
To meet me, man to man; if I prevail,
Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall —
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no
kin.
Dim is the rumor of a common fight,
Where host meets host, and many names
are sunk:
But of a single combat Fame speaks
clear."
He spoke: and Peran-Wisa took the
hand
Of the young man in his, and sighed, and
said:
"0 Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine!
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar
chiefs,
And share the battle's common chance
with us
Who love thee, but must press forever
first,
In single fight incurring single risk,
To find a father thou hast never seen?
That were far best, my son, to stay with us
Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is
war,
And when 't is truce, then in Afrasiab's
towns.
But, if this one desire indeed rules all,
To seek out Rustum — seek him not
through fight:
Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms,
O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son !
But far hence seek him, for he is not here,
For now it is not as when I was young,
When Rustum was in front of every fray:
But now he keeps apart, and sits at home,
In Seistan, with Zal, his father old.
Whether that his own mighty strength at
last
124
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Feels the abhorred approaches of old age;
Or in some quarrel with the Persian King.
There go! — Thou wilt not? Yet my
heart forebodes
Danger of death awaits thee on this field.
Fain would I know thee safe and well,
though lost
To us: fain therefore send thee hence, in
peace
To seek thy father, not seek single fights
In vain: — but who can keep the lion's cub
From ravening? and who govern Rustum's
son?
Go! I will grant thee what thy heart de-
sires."
So said he, and dropped Sohrab's hand,
and left
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he
lay,
And o'er his chilly limbs his woolen coat
He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet,
And threw a white cloak round him, and he
took
In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword;
And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap,
Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-
Kul;
And raised the curtain of his tent, and
called
His herald to his side, and went abroad.
The sun, by this, had risen, and cleared
the fog
From the broad Oxus and the glittering
sands:
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen
filed
Into the open plain; so Haman bade;
Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled
The host, and still was hi his lusty prune.
From their black tents, long files of horse,
they streamed:
As when, some gray November morn, the
files,
In marching order spread, of long-necked
cranes,
Stream over Casbin, and the southern
slopes
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries,
Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, south-
ward bound
For the warm Persian sea-board: so they
streamed.
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard,
First, with black sheep-skin caps and with
long spears;
Large men, large steeds; who from Bok-
hara come
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of
mares.
Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of
the south,
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore,
And those from Attruck and the Caspian
sands;
Light men, and on light steeds, who only
drink
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells.
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who
came
From far, and a more doubtful service
owned;
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks
Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards
And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder
hordes
Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern
waste,
Kalmuks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes
who stray
Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kir-
ghizzes,
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere.
These all filed out from camp into the
plain.
And on the other side the Persians
formed:
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they
seemed,
The Ilyats of Khorassan: and behind,
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot,
Marshaled battalions bright in burnished
steel.
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the
front,
And with his staff kept back the foremost
ranks.
And when Ferood, who led the Persians,
saw
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back,
He took his spear, and to the front he
came,
And checked his ranks, and fixed them
where they stood.
NARRATIVE POETRY
And the old Tartar came upon the sand
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and
said:
"Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars,
hear!
Let there be truce between the hosts to-
day.
But choose a champion from the Persian
lords
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to
man."
As, in the country, on a morn in June,
When the dew glistens on the pearled
ears,
A shiver runs through the deep corn for
joy-
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa
said,
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons
ran
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they
loved.
But as a troop of peddlers, from Cabool,
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of
milk snow;
Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they
pass
Long flocks of traveling birds dead on the
snow,
Choked by the air, and scarce can they
themselves
Slake their parched throats with sugared
mulberries —
In single file they move, and stop their
breath,
For fear they should dislodge the o'er-
hanging snows —
So the pale Persians held their breath with
fear.
And to Ferood his brother chiefs came
up
To counsel. Gudurz and Zoarrah came,
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host
Second, and was the uncle of the King:
These came and counseled; and then
Gudurz said:
" Ferood, shame bids us take their chal-
lenge up,
Yet champion have we none to match this
youth.
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart.
But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits
And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart:
Him will I seek, and carry to his ear
The Tartar challenge, and this young
man's name.
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight,
Stand forth the while, and take their chal-
lenge up."
So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and
cried:
"Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said.
Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man."
He spake; and Peran-Wisa turned, and
strode
Back through the opening squadrons to his
tent.
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz
ran,
And crossed the camp which lay behind,
and reached,
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's
tents.
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering
gay,
Just pitched: the high pavilion in the
midst
Was Rustum's, and his men lay camped
around.
And Gudurz entered Rustum's tent, and
found
Rustum: his morning meal was done, but
still
The table stood before him, charged with
food —
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread,
And dark green melons; and there Rustum
sate
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist,
And played with it; but Gudurz came and
stood
Before him; and he looked, and saw him
stand;
And with a cry sprang up, and dropped the
bird,
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and
said:
"Welcome! these eyes could see no
better sight.
What news? but sit down first, and eat and
drink."
But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and
said:
126
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
"Not now: a time will come to eat and
drink,
But not to-day: to-day has other needs.
The armies are drawn out, and stand at
gaze:
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought
To pick a champion from the Persian lords
To fight their champion— and thou know'st
his name —
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid.
O Rustum, like thy might is this young
man's!
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart.
And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old,
Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee.
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we
lose."
He spoke: but Rustum answered with a
smile: —
"Go to! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I
Am older: if the young are weak, the king
Errs strangely: for the king, for Kai-
Khosroo,
Himself is young, and honors younger men,
And lets the aged molder to their graves.
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the
young —
The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts,
not I.
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's
fame?
For would that I myself had such a son,
And not that one slight helpless girl I have,
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war,
And I to tarry with the snow-haired Zal,
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex,
And clip his borders short, and drive his
herds,
And he has none to guard his weak old age.
There would I go, and hang my armor up,
And with my great name fence that weak
old man,
And spend the goodly treasures I have
got,
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's
fame,
And leave to death the hosts of thankless
kings,
And with these slaughterous hands draw
sword no more."
He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz
made reply:
"What then, O Rustum, will men say to
this,
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and
seeks,
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he
seeks,
Hidest thy face? Take heed, lest men
should say,
'Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his
fame,
And shuns to peril it with younger men.' "
And, greatly moved, then Rustum made
reply:
"O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such
words?
Thou knowest better words than this to
say.
What is one more, one less, obscure or
famed,
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me?
Are not they mortal, am not I myself?
But who for men of naught would do great
deeds?
Come, thou shall see how Rustum hoards
his fame.
But I will fight unknown, and in plain
arms;
Let not men say of Rustum, he was
matched
In single fight with any mortal man."
He spoke, and frowned; and Gudurz
turned, and ran
Back quickly through the camp in fear and
joy.
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum
came.
But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and
called
His followers in, and bade them bring his
arms,
And clad himself in steel: the arms he
chose
Were plain, and on his shield was no de-
vice,
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold,
And from the fluted spine atopj a plume
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair
plume.
So armed, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his
horse,
Followed him, like a faithful hound, at
heel,
NARRATIVE POETRY
127
Ruksh, whose renown was noised through
all the earth,
The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once
Did in Bokhara by the river find
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him
home,
And reared him; a bright bay, with lofty
crest,
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered
green
Crusted with gold, and on the ground
were worked
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters
know:
So followed, Rustum left his tents, and
crossed
The camp, and to the Persian host ap-
peared.
And all the Persians knew him, and with
shouts
Hailed; but the Tartars knew not who he
was.
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes
Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on
shore,
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf,
Plunging all day hi the blue waves, at night,
Having made up his tale of precious pearls,
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands —
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came.
And Rustum to the Persian front ad-
vanced,
And Sohrab armed in Haman's tent, and
came.
And as afield the reapers cut a swath
Down through the middle of a rich man's
corn,
And on each side* are squares of standing
corn,
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare;
So on each side were squares of men, with
spears
Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand.
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast
His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he
came.
As some rich woman, on a winter's morn,
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor
drudge
Who with numb blackened fingers makes
her fire —
At cock-crow on a starlit winter's morn,
When the frost flowers the whitened win-
dow-panes—
And wonders how she lives, and what the
thoughts
Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum
eyed
The unknown adventurous youth, who
from afar
Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth
All the most valiant chiefs : long he perused
His spirited air, and wondered who he was.
For very young he seemed, tenderly reared;
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark,
and straight,
Which hi a queen's secluded garden throws
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's
sound —
So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared.
And a deep pity entered Rustum's soul
As he beheld him coming; and he stood,
And beckoned to him with his hand, and
said:
"O thou young man, the air of heaven
is soft,
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is
cold.
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead
grave.
Behold me: I am vast, and clad in iron,
And tried; and I have stood on many a
field
Of blood, and I have fought with many a
foe:
Never was that field lost, or that foe
saved.
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on
death?
Be governed: quit the Tartar host, and
come
To Iran, and be as my son to me,
And fight beneath my banner till I die.
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou."
So he spake, mildly: Sohrab heard his
voice,
The mighty voice of Rustum; and he saw
His giant figure planted on the sand,
Sole, like some single tower, which a
chief
Hath builded on the waste in former years,
Against the robbers; and he saw that head,
128
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Streaked with its first gray hairs: hope
filled his soul;
And he ran forward and embraced his
knees,
And clasped his hand within his own and
said:
"Oh, by thy father's head! by thine own
soul!
Art thou not Rustum? Speak! art thou
not he?"
But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling
youth,
And turned away, and spake to his own
soul:
"Ah me, I muse what this young fox
may mean.
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys.
For if I now confess this thing he asks,
And hide it not, but say, 'Rustum is here,'
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our
foes,
But he will find some pretext not to fight,
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous
gifts,
A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way.
And on a feast-day, in Afrasiab's hall,
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry —
'I challenged once, when the two armies
camped
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords
To cope with me in single fight; but they
Shrank; only Rustum dared: then he and I
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms
away.'
So will he speak, perhaps, while men ap-
plaud.
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed
through me."
And then he turned, and sternly spake
aloud:
"Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly ques-
tion thus
Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast
called
By challenge forth: make good thy vaunt,
or yield.
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst
fight?
Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and
flee.
For well I know, that did great Rustum
stand
Before thy face this day, and were re-
vealed,
There would be then no talk of fighting
more.
But being what I am, I tell thee this:
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul:
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt,
and yield;
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till
winds
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer
floods,
Oxus in summer wash them all away."
He spoke: and Sohrab answered, on his
feet:—
"Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright
me so.
I am no girl, to be made pale by words.
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum
stand
Here on this field, there were no fighting
then.
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand
here.
Begin: thou art more vast, more dread
than I,
And thou art proved, I know, and I am
young —
But yet success sways with the breath of
heaven.
And though thou thinkest that thou know-
est sure
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely
know.
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea,
Poised on the top of a huge wave of Fate,
Which hangs uncertain, to which side to
fall.
And whether it will heave us up to land,
Or whether it will roll us out to sea,
Back out to sea, to the deep waves of
death,
We know not, and no search will make us
know:
Only the event will teach us in its hour."
He spoke; and Rustum answered not,
but hurled
His spear: down from the shoulder, down
it came
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk
That long has towered in the airy clouds
Drops like a plummet : Sohrab saw it come,
NARRATIVE POETRY
129
And sprang aside, quick as a flash: the
spear
Hissed, and went quivering down into the
sand,
Which it sent flying wide: — then Sohrab
threw
In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield:
sharp rang,
The iron plates rang sharp, but turned the
spear.
And Rustum seized his club, which none
but he
Could wield: an unlopped trunk it was, and
huge,
Still rough; like those which men in treeless
plains
To build them boats fish from the flooded
rivers,
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-
time
Has made in Himalayan forest wrack,
And strewn the channels with torn boughs;
so huge
The club which Rustum lifted now, and
struck
One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang
aside
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club
came
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rus-
tum's hand.
And Rustum followed his own blow, and
fell
To his knees, and with his fingers clutched
the sand:
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed
his sword,
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he
lay
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with
sand:
But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared
his sword,
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and
said:
"Thou strik'st too hard: that club of
thine will float
Upon the summer-floods, and not my
bones.
But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth
am I:
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my
soul.
Thou say'st thou art not Rustum: be it so.
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my
soul?
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too;
Have waded f oremost in their bloody waves,
And heard their hollow roar of dying men;
But never was my heart thus touched be-
fore.
Are they from heaven, these softenings of
the heart?
O thou old warrior, let us yield to heaven !
Come, plant we here hi earth our angry
spears,
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand,
And pledge each other in red wine, like
friends,
And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's
deeds.
There are enough foes in the Persian host
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no
pang;
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom
thou
Mayst fight; fight them, when they con-
front thy spear.
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and
me!"
He ceased: but while he spake, Rustum
had risen,
And stood erect, trembling with rage: his
club
He left to lie, but had regained his spear,
Whose fiery point now in his mailed right-
hand
Blazed bright and baleful, like that au-
tumn star,
The baleful sign of fevers: dust had soiled
His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering
arms.
His breast heaved; his lips foamed; and
twice his voice
Was choked with rage: at last these words
broke way:
"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with
thy hands!
Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet
words!
Fight; let me hear thy hateful voice no
more!
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now
130
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art
wont to dance;
But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance
Of battle, and with me, who make no play
Of war: I fight it out, and hand to hand.
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and
wine!
Remember all thy valor; try thy feints
And cunning: all the pity I had is gone:
Because thou hast shamed me before both
the hosts
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy
girl's wiles."
He spoke: and Sohrab kindled at his
taunts,
And he too drew his sword: at once they
rushed
Together, as two eagles on one prey
Come rushing down together from the
clouds,
One from the east, one from the west:
their shields
Dashed with a clang together, and a din
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcut-
ters
Make often in the forest's heart at morn,
Of hewing axes, crashing trees: such blows
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed.
And you would say that sun and stars took
part
In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud
Grew suddenly in heaven, and darked the
sun
Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose
Under their feet, and moaning swept the
plain,
And hi a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair.
In gloom they twain were wrapped, and
they alone;
For both the on-looking hosts on either
hand
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was
pure,
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.
But in the gloom they fought, with blood-
shot eyes
And laboring breath; first Rustum struck
the shield
Which Sohrab held stiff out: the steel-
spiked spear
Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach
the skin,
And Rustum plucked it back with angry
groan.
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rus-
tum's helm,
Nor clove its steel quite through; but all
the crest
He shore away, and that proud horsehair
plume,
Never till now defiled, sank to the dust;
And Rustum bowed his head; but then
the gloom
Grew blacker: thunder rumbled in the air,
And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh,
the horse,
Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful
cry:
No horse's cry was that, most like the roar
Of some pained desert lion, who all day
Hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his
side,
And comes at night to die upon the sand:
The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked
for fear,
And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream.
But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but
rushed on,
And struck again; and again Rustum
bowed
His head; but this time all the blade, like
glass,
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,
And in his hand the hilt remained alone.
Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful
eyes
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing
spear,
And shouted, "Rustum!" Sohrab heard
that shout,
And shrank amazed: back he recoiled one
step,
And scanned with blinking eyes the ad-
vancing form:
And then he stood bewildered; and he
dropped
His covering shield, and the spear pierced
his side.
He reeled, and staggering back, sank to
the ground.
And then the gloom dispersed, and the
wind fell,
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted
all
NARRATIVE POETRY
The cloud; and the two armies saw the
pair;
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,
And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.
Then with a bitter smile, Rustum
began:
"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to
kill
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent.
Or else that the great Rustum would
come down
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles
would move
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go.
And then that all the Tartar host would
praise
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy
fame,
To glad thy father in his weak old age.
Fool! thou art slam, and by an unknown
man!
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be,
Than to thy friends, and to thy father
old."
And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab re-
plied:
' Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is
vain.
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful
man!
No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart.
For were I matched with ten such men as
thee,
And I were he who till to-day I was,
They should be lying here, I standing
there
But that beloved name unnerved my arm —
That name, and something, I confess, in
thee,
Which troubles all my heart, and made my
shield
Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed
foe,
And now thou boastest, and insult'st my
fate.
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to
hear!
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my
death!
My father, whom I seek through all the
world,
He shall avenge my death, and punish
thee!"
As when some hunter in the spring hath
found
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest,
Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake,
And pierced her with an arrow as she
rose,
And followed her to find her where she fell
Far off; — anon her mate comes winging
back
From hunting, and a great way off descries
His huddling young left sole; at that, he
checks
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but
she
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side,
In some far stony gorge out of his ken,
A heap of fluttering feathers: never more
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it;
Never the black and dripping precipices
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by: —
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his
loss —
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but
stood
Over his dying son, and knew him not.
But with a cold, incredulous voice, he
said:
" What prate is this of fathers and revenge?
The mighty Rustum never had a son."
And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:
"Ah, yes, he had! and that lost son am I.
Surely the news will one day reach his ear,
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries
long,
Somewhere, I know not where, but far
from here;
And pierce him like a stab, and make him
leap
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee.
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only
son!
What will that grief, what will that ven-
geance be!
Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen !
Yet him I pity not so much, but her,
My mother, who hi Ader-baijan dwells
With that old king, her father, who grows
gray
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
With age, and rules over the valiant
Koords.
Her most I pity, who no more will see
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp,
With spoils and honor, when the war is
done.
But a dark rumor will be bruited up,
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;
And then will that defenceless woman learn
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more;
But that in battle with a nameless foe,
By the far distant Oxus, he is slain."
He spoke; and as he ceased he wept
aloud,
Thinking of her he left, and his own death.
He spoke; but Rustum listened, plunged in
thought.
Nor did he yet believe it was his son
Who spoke, although he called back names
he knew;
For he had had sure tidings that the babe,
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him,
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all:
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear
Rustum should seek the boy, to train in
arms;
And so he deemed that either Sohrab took,
By a false boast, the style of Rustum's
son;
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame.
So deemed he; yet he listened, plunged in
thought;
And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide
Of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore
At the full moon: tears gathered in his
eyes;
For he remembered his own early youth,
And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn,
The shepherd from his mountain-lodge
descries
A far, bright city, smitten by the sun,
Through many rolling clouds; — so Rustum
saw
His youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her
bloom;
And that old king, her father, who loved
well
His wandering guest, and gave him his
fair child
With joy; and all the pleasant life they led,
They three, in that long-distant summer-
tim" —
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt
And hound, and morn on those delightful'
hills
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth,
Of age and looks to be his own dear son,
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand,
Like some rich hyacinth, which by the
scythe
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut,
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its
bed,
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom,
On the mown, dying grass; — so Sohrab
lay,
Lovely in death, upon the common sand.
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and
said: —
"O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well
have loved!
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men
Have told thee false; — thou art not Rus-
tum's son.
For Rustum had no son: one child he
had —
But one — a girl: who with her mother
now
Plies some light female task, nor dreams
of us —
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor
war."
But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for
now
The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew
fierce,
And he desired to draw forth the steel,
And let the blood flow free, and so to die;
But first he would convince his stubborn
foe—
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said:
"Man, who art thou who dost deny my
words?
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men,
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from
mine.
I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear
That seal which Rustum to my mother
gave,
That she might prick it on the babe she
bore."
He spoke: and all the blood left Rus-
tum's cheeks;
NARRATIVE POETRY
133
And his knees tottered, and he smote his
hand,
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand,
That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud:
And on his heart he pressed the other hand,
And in a hollow voice he spake and said:
" Sohrab, that were a proof which could
not lie.
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's
son."
Then, with weak hasty ringers, Sohrab
loosed
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his
arm,
And showed a sign in faint vermilion points
Pricked: as a cunning workman, in Pekin,
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain
vase,
An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints,
And aU day long, and, when night comes,
the lamp
Lights up his studious forehead and thin
hands : —
So delicately pricked the sign appeared
On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's
seal.
It was that Griffin, which of old reared
Zal,
Rustum's great father, whom they left to
die,
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks.
Him that kind creature found, and reared,
and loved —
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.
And Sohrab bared that image on his arm,
And himself scanned it long with mournful
eyes,
And then he touched it with his hand and
said:
"How say'st thou? Is that sign the
proper sign
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's? "
He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and gazed,
and stood
Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp
cry —
"O boy — thy father!" — and his voice
choked there.
And then a dark cloud passed before his
eyes,
And his head swam, and he sank down to
earth.
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and
cast
His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips,
And with fond faltering fingers stroked his
cheeks,
Trying to call him back to life: and life
Came back to Rustum, and he oped his
eyes,
And they stood wide with horror; and he
seized
In both his hands the dust which lay
around,
And threw it on his head, and smirched his
hair,
His hair, and face, and beard, and glitter-
ing arms:
And strong convulsive groanings shook his
breast,
And his sobs choked him; and he clutched
his sword,
To draw it, and forever let life out.
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his
hands,
And with a soothing voice he spake, and
said:
"Father, forbear: for I but meet to-day
The doom that at my birth was written
down
In heaven, and thou art heaven's uncon-
scious hand.
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou,
When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke
too,
I know it: but Fate trod those promptings
down
Under its iron heel; Fate, Fate engaged
The strife, and hurled me on my father's
spear.
But let us speak no more of this: I find
My father; let me feel that I have found.
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my
cheeks,
And wash them with thy tears, and say:
'My son!'
Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands
of life,
And swift; for like the lightning to this
field
I came, and like the wind I go away —
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing
wind.
134
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
But it was writ in heaven that this should
be."
So said he: and his voice released the
heart
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he
cast
His arms round his son's neck, and wept
aloud,
And kissed him. And awe fell on both the
hosts
When they saw Rustum's grief: and
Ruksh, the horse,
With his head bowing to the ground, and
mane
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute
woe
First to the one, then to the other moved
His head, as if inquiring what their grief
Might mean; and from his dark, compas-
sionate eyes,
The big warm tears rolled down, and caked
the sand.
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and
said:
"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but O
Ruksh, thy feet
Should first have rotted on their nimble
joints,
When first they bore thy master to this
field."
But Sohrab looked upon the horse and
said:
" Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past
days,
My mother told me of thee, thou brave
steed!
My terrible father's terrible horse; and
said,
That I should one day find thy lord and
thee.
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane.
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I;
For thou hast gone where I shall never go,
And snuffed the breezes of my father's
home.
And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan,
And seen the river of Helmund, and the
Lake
Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself
Has often stroked thy neck, and given
thee food,
Corn in a gclden platter soaked with wine,
And said— 'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!'
—but I
Have never known my grandsire's fur-
rowed face,
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan,
Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund
stream:
But lodged among my father's foes, and
seen
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand,
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,
And the black Toorkmun tents, and only
drunk
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend,
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their
sheep,
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus
stream —
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die."
And, with a heavy groan, Rustum be-
wailed:
"Oh, that its waves were flowing over me!
Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my
head!"
And, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab re-
plied:
"Desire not that, my father: thou must
live.
For some are bora to do great deeds, and
live,
As some are born to be obscured, and
die.
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,
And reap a second glory in thine age.
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.
But come: thou seest this great host of
men
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not
these:
Let me entreat for them: what have they
done?
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my
star.
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
But me thou must bear hence, not send
with them,
But carry me with thee to Seistan,
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me,
Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy
friends .
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth.
NARRATIVE POETRY
And heap a stately mound above my bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all;
That so the passing horseman on the waste
May see my tomb a great way off, and
cry:
'Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies
there,
Whom his great father did in ignorance
kill'—
And I be not forgotten in my grave. "
And, with a mournful voice, Rustum
replied: —
"Fear not; as thou hast said, Sohrab, my
son,
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents
And quit the host, and bear thee hence
with me,
And carry thee away to Seistan.
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for
thee,
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my
friends,
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above thy
bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all:
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.
And I will spare thy host: yea, let them go:
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
What should I do with slaying any more?
For would that all whom I have ever
slain
Might be once more alive; my bitterest
foes,
And they who were called champions in
their time,
And through whose death I won that fame
I have;
And I were nothing but a common man,
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown;
So thou mightest live too, my son, my
son!
Or rather would that I, even I myself,
Might now be lying on this bloody sand,
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of
thine,
Not thou of mine; and I might die, not
thou;
And I, not thou, be borne to Se'istan;
And Zal might weep above my grave, not
thine;
And say — 'O son, I weep thee not too sore,
For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine
end.'
But now in blood and battles was my
youth,
And full of blood and battles is my age;
And I shall never end this life of blood. "
Then, at the point of death, Sohrab re-
plied:
"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man!
But thou shalt yet have peace; only not
now.
Not yet: but thou shalt have it on that
day,
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship,
Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo,
Returning home over the salt blue sea,
From laying thy dear master in his grave."
And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and
said:
" Soon be that day, my son, and deep that
sea!
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure."
He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him,
and took
The spear, and drew it from his side, and
eased
His wound's imperious anguish; but the
blood
Came welling from the open gash, and life
Flowed with the stream; all down his cold
white side
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and
soiled,
Like the soiled tissue of white violets
Left, freshly gathered, on their native
bank,
By children whom their nurses call with
haste
Indoors from the sun's eye; his head
drooped low,
His limbs grew slack: motionless, white,
he lay,
White, with eyes closed, only when heavy
gasps,
Deep heavy gasps, quivering through all
his frame,
Convulsed him back to life, he opened
them.
And fixed them feebly on his father's face;
Till now all strength was ebbed; and from
his limbs
Unwillingly the spirit fled away,
136
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Regretting the warm mansion which it
left,
And youth, and bloom, and this delightful
world,
So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead:
And the great Rustum drew his horseman's
cloak
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead
son.
As those black granite pillars, once high-
reared,
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear
His house, now 'mid their broken flights
of steps,
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain
side:
So, in the sand, lay Rustum by his son.
And night came down over the solemn
waste,
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole
pair,
And darkened all; and a cold fog, with
night,
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose,
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires
Began to twinkle through the fog; for now
Both armies moved to camp, and took
their meal:
The Persians took it on the open sands
Southward, the Tartars, by the river
marge:
And Rustum and his son were left alone.
But the majestic river floated on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low
land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,
Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian
waste,
Under the solitary moon: he flowed
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje,
Brimming, and bright, and large; then
sands began
To hem his watery march, and dam his
streams,
And split his currents, that for many a
league
The shorn and parceled Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy
isles;
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had,
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere,
A foiled circuitous wanderer: till at last
Tne longed-for dash of waves is heard, and
wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-
bathed stars
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.
SIDNEY LANIER (1842-1881)
THE REVENGE OF HAMISH*
IT WAS three slim does and a ten-tined
buck in the bracken lay;
And ah1 of a sudden the sinister smell of
a man,
Awaft on a wind-shift, wavered and ran
Down the hillside and sifted along through
the bracken and passed that way.
Then Nan got a- tremble at nostril; she was
the daintiest doe;
In the print of her velvet flank on the
velvet fern
She reared, and rounded her ears in turn.
Then the buck leapt up, and his head as c.
king's to a crown did go
Full high in the breeze, and he stood as if
Death had the form of a deer;
And the two slim does long lazily
stretching arose,
For their day-dream slowlier came to a
close,
Till they woke and were still, breath-
bound with waiting and wonder
and fear.
Then Alan the huntsman sprang over the
hillock, the hounds shot by,
The does and the ten-tined buck made a
marvellous bound,
The hounds swept after with never a
sound,
But Alan loud winded his horn in sign that
the quarry was nigh.
For at dawn of that day proud Maclean
of Lochbuy to the hunt had waxed
wild,
*Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
NARRATIVE POETRY
137
And he cursed at old Alan till Alan fared
off with the hounds
For to drive him the deer to the lower
glen-grounds:
" I will kill a red deer," quoth Maclean, " in
the sight of the wife and the child."
So gayly he paced with the wife and the
child to his chosen stand;
But he hurried tall Hamish the hench-
man ahead: "Go turn," —
Cried Maclean, — "if the deer seek to
cross to the burn,
Do thou turn them to me: nor fail, lest thy
back be red as thy hand."
Now hard-fortuned Hamish, half blown of
his breath with the height of the
hill,
Was white in the face when the ten-tined
buck and the does
Drew leaping to burn- ward; huskily
rose
His shouts, and his nether lip twitched, and
his legs were o'er-weak for his will.
So the deer darted lightly by Hamish and
bounded away to the burn.
But Maclean never bating his watch tar-
ried waiting below;
Still Hamish hung heavy with fear for
to go
All the space of an hour; then he went, and
his face was greenish and stern,
And his eye sat back in the socket, and
shrunken the eye-balls shone,
As withdrawn from a vision of deeds it
were shame to see.
"Now, now, grim henchman, what is 't
with thee?"
Brake Maclean, and his wrath rose red as
a beacon the wind hath upblown.
"Three does and a ten-tined buck made
out," spoke Hamish, full mild,
"And I ran for to turn, but my breath it
was blown, and they passed;
I was weak, for ye called ere I broke me
my fast."
Cried Maclean: "Now a ten-tined buck
in the si^ht of the wife and the child
"I had killed if the gluttonous kern had not
wrought me a snail's own wrong!"
Then he sounded, and down came kins*'
men and clansmen all:
"Ten blows, for ten tine, on his back let
fall,
And reckon no stroke if the blood follow
not at the bite of thong!"
So Hamish made bare, and took him his
strokes; at the last he smiled.
"Now I'll to the burn," quoth Maclean,
" for it still may be,
If a slimmer-paunched henchman will
hurry with me,
I shall kill me the ten-tined buck for a gift
to the wife and the child!"
Then the clansmen departed, by this path
and that; and over the hill
Sped Maclean with an outward wrath
for an inward shame;
And that place of the lashing full quiet
became;
And the wife and the child stood sad; and
bloody-backed Hamish sat still.
But look! red Hamish has risen; quick
about and about turns he.
"There is none betwixt me and the crag-
top!" he screams under breath.
Then, livid as Lazarus lately from death,
He snatches the child from the mother, and
clambers the crag toward the sea.
Now the mother drops breath; she is dumb,
and her heart goes dead for a space,
Till the motherhood, mistress of death,
shrieks, shrieks through the glen,
And that place of the lashing is live with
men,
And Maclean, and the gillie that told him,
i dash up in a desperate race.
Not a breath's time for asking; an eye-
glance reveals all the tale untold.
They follow mad Hamish afar up the
crag toward the sea,
And the lady cries: "Clansmen, run for
a fee! —
Yon castle and lands to the two first hands
that shall hook him and hold
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
"Fast Hamish back from the brink !"-
and ever she flies up the steep,
And the clansmen pant, and they sweat,
and they jostle and strain.
But, mother, 't is vain; but, father, 't is
vain;
Stern Hamish stands bold on the brink,
and dangles the child o'er the deep.
Now a faintness falls on the men th'at run,
and they all stand still.
And the wife prays Hamish as if he were
God, on her knees,
Crying: "Hamish! 0 Hamish! but please,
but please
For to spare him!" and Hamish still
dangles the child, with a wavering
will.
On a sudden he turns; with a sea-hawk
scream, and a gibe, and a song,
Cries: "So; I will spare ye the child if, in
sight of ye all,
Ten blows on Maclean's bare back shall
fall,
And ye reckon no stroke if the blood follow
not at the bite of the thong!"
Then Maclean he set hardly his tooth to
his lip that his tooth was red,
Breathed short for a space, said: "Nay,
but it never shall be!
Let me hurl off the damnable hound in
the sea!"
But the wife: "Can Hamish go fish us the
child from the sea, if dead?
"Say yea! — Let them lash me, Hamish?"
-"Nay!"— "Husband, the lashing
will heal;
But, oh, who will heal me the bonny
sweet bairn in his grave?
Could ye cure me my heart with the
death of a knave?
Quick! Love! I will bare thee — so —
kneel!" Then Maclean 'gan
slowly to kneel
With never a word, till presently down-
ward he jerked to the earth.
Then the henchman — he that smote
Hamish — would tremble and lag;
"Strike, hard!" quoth Hamish, full
stern, from the crag;
Then he struck him, and "One!" sang
Hamish, and danced with the child
in his mirth.
And no man spake beside Hamish; he
counted each stroke with a
song.
When the last stroke fell, then he moved
him a pace down the height,
And he held forth the child in the heart-
aching sight
Of the mother, and looked all pitiful grave,
as repenting a wrong.
And there as the motherly arms stretched
out with the thanksgiving prayer —
And there as the mother crept up with a
fearful swift pace,
Till her finger nigh felt of the bairnie's
face —
In a flash fierce Hamish turned round and
lifted the child in the air
And sprang with the child in his arms from
the horrible height in the sea,
Shrill screeching, "Revenge!" in the
wind-rush; and pallid Maclean,
Age-feeble with anger and impotent
pain,
Crawled up on the crag, and lay flat, and
locked hold of dead roots of a
tree,
And gazed hungrily o'er, and the blood
from his back drip-dripped in the
brine,
And a sea-hawk flung down a skeleton
fish as he flew,
And the mother stared white on the
waste of blue,
And the wind drove a cloud to seaward,
and the sun began to shine.
(1878)
in
THE BALLAD
THE POPULAR BALLAD
The ancient English and Scottish ballads have descended to us from oral tradition as an outgrowth
of what was probably the composition of simple songs with refrain by our ancestors as they sat around
a fire and sang or chanted to each other. Slowly these little narrative poems grew more complex until
they attained the form in which they have been preserved. The Robin Hood cycle of ballads is grouped
about the fortunes of the popular outlaw hero who robbed fat abbots, shot the king's deer, and assisted
the poor and needy with open hand. The swift dramatic power of all the genuine popular ballads should
be noted.
Some striking parallels to the original three hundred and five genuine British ballads which have
been recently discovered in the mountains of Virginia show how persistently the early cultural associa-
tions of England remained in their primitive purity in these mountainous regions of our own South.
Two modern imitations of the popular ballad are here printed for the sake of a comparison between
the method of primitive art and conscious art in handling similar themes.
EDWARD
"WHY dois your brand sae drap wi bluid,
Edward, Edward,
Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid,
And why sae sad gang yee 0?"
"O I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither,
O I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
And I had nae mair bot hee 0."
"Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
Edward, Edward,
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
My deir son I teU thee O."
"01 hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither,
O I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and frie O."
" Your steid was auld, and ye hae got mair,
Edward, Edward,
Your steid was auld, and ye hae got mair,
Sum other dule ye drie 0."
"O I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither,
0 I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas, and wae is mee O!"
"And whatten penance wul ye drie for
that,
Edward, Edward,
And whatten penance will ye drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me O."
"He set my feit in yonder boat,
Mither, mither,
He set my feit in yonder boat,
And He fare ovir the sea O."
"And what wul ye doe wi your towirs
and your ha,
Edward, Edward?
And what wul you doe wi your towirs and
your ha,
That were sae fair to see O?"
"He let thame stand tul they doun fa,
Mither, mither,
He let thame stand tul they doun fa,
For here nevir mair maun I bee 0."
"And what wul ye leive to your bairns
and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and
your wife,
Whan ye gang ovir the sea O? "
"The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,
Mither, mither,
The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see O."
"And what wul ye leive to your ain
mither deir,
Edward, Edward?
139
140
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
And what wul ye leive to your ain mither
deir?
My deir son, now tell me 0."
"The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir,
Mither, mither,
The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir,
Sic counseils ye gave to me 0."
THE THREE RAVENS
THERE were three ravens sat on a tree,
Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe,
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
With a downe,
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as blacke as they might be.
With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie,
downe, downe.
The one of them said to his mate,
"Where shall we our breakfast take? "
"Downe in yonder greene field
There lies a knight slain under his shield.
"His hounds they lie down at his feete,
So well they can their master keepe.
"His haukes they flie so eagerly,
There's no fowle dare him come nie."
Downe there comes a fallow doe,
As great with young as she might goe.
She lif t up his bloudy hed,
And kist his wounds that were so red.
She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake.
She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
God send every gentleman
Such haukes, such hounds, and such a
leman.
THOMAS RYMER
TRUE Thomas lay oer yond grassy bank,
And he beheld a ladie gay,
A ladie that was brisk and bold,
Come riding oer the fernie brae.
Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine,
At ilka tett of her horse's mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.
True Thomas he took off his hat
And bowed him low down till his knee:
"All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For your peer on earth I never did see."
"O no, O no, True Thomas," she says,
"That name does not belong to me;
I am but the queen of fair Elfland,
And I'm come here for to visit thee.
"Harp and carp, Thomas," she said,
"Harp and carp along wi me;
But if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be."
"Betide me weal, betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunton me;" —
Syne he has kissed her rosy lips
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
"But ye maun go wi me now, Thomas,
True Thomas, ye maun go wi me,
For ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro weel or wae as may chance to be."
She turned about her milk-white steed,
And took True Thomas up behind,
And aye when eer her bridle rang,
The steed flew swifter than the wind.
For forty days and forty nights
He wade thro red blude to the knee,
And he saw neither sun nor moon,
But heard the roaring of the sea.
O they rade on and further on,
Until they came to a garden green:
"Light down, light down, ye ladie free,
Some of that fruit let me pull to thee."
"O no, O no, True Thomas," she says,
"That fruit maun not betouched-bythee,
For a' the plagues that are in hell
Light on the fruit of this countrie.
"But I have a loaf here in my lap,
Likewise a bottle of claret wine,
THE BALLAD
141
And here ere we go farther on,
We'll rest a while, and ye may dine."
When he had eaten and drunk his fill,
"Lay down your head upon my knee,"
The lady sayd, "ere we climb yon hill,
And I will show you ferlies three.
"O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi thorns and briers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Tho after it but few enquires.
"And see not ye that braid braid road,
That lies across yon lillie leven?
That is the path of wickedness,
Tho some call it the road to heaven.
"And see ye not that bonny road,
Which winds about the femie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where you and I this night maun gae.
"But Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see,
For ginae word you should chance to speak,
You will neer get back to your ain
countrie."
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair of shoes of velvet green,
And till seven years were past and gone
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
SIR PATRICK SPENS
THE king sits hi Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine? "
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor,
That sails upon the se."
The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
"O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!
" Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,,
Our guid schip sails the morne:"
"O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feu* a deadlie storme.
"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feu-, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme."
0 our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet then- cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi thair gold kerns in their hair,
Waiting for thar ain deir lords,
For they'll see thame na mair.
Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It 's fif tie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.
BONNY BARBARA ALLAN*
IT WAS in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Graeme, in the West
Country,
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
He sent his man down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling:
•This ballad is one of about seventy-six which have been
found surviving in the United States. _ An ^interesting version,
coming from Buchanan County, Virginia, in which the dying
lover defends himself against the reproach of having slighted
his sweetheart, is quoted in an article, Ballads Surviving in the
United States, in the January, 1916, Musical Quarterly, by Dr.
C. Alphonso Smith.
142
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
"O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan."
O hooly, hooly rose she up,
To the place where he was lying,
And when she drew the curtain by,
"Young man, I think you 're dying."
"O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick,
And 't is a' for Barbara Allan:"
"0 the better for me ye 's never be,
Tho your heart's blood were a spilling.
"0 dinna ye mind, young man," said she,
"When ye was in the tavern a drinking,
That ye made the healths gae round and
round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?"
He turnd his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing:
"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allan."
And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said, she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.
She had not gane a mile but twa,
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every jow that the dead-bell geid,
It cryd, Woe to Barbara Allan!
"O mother, mother, make my bed!
0 make it saft and narrow!
Since my love died for me to-day,
I'll die for him to-morrow."
JOHNIE ARMSTRONG
THERE dwelt a man in faire Westmerland,
Jonne Armestrong men did him call,
He had nither lands nor rents coming in,
Yet he kept eight score men in his hall.
He had horse and harness for them all,
Goodly steeds were all milke-white;
O the golden bands an about their necks,
And their weapons, they were all alike.
Newes then was brought unto the king
That there was sicke a won as hee,
That lived lyke a bold out-law,
And robbed all the north country.
The king he writt an a letter then,
A letter which was large and long;
He signed it with his owne hand,
And he promised to doe him no wrong.
When this letter came Jonne untill,
His heart was as blyth as birds on tht
tree:
"Never was I sent for before any king,
My father, my grandfather, nor now
but mee.
"And if wee goe the king before,
I would we went most orderly;
Every man of you shall have his scarlet
cloak,
Laced with silver laces three.
"Every won of you shall have his velvett
coat,
Laced with silver lace so white;
O the golden bands an about your necks,
Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke."
By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock,
Towards Edenburough gon was hee,
And with him all his eight score men;
Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to
see!
When Jonne came befower the king,
He fell downe on his knee;
"O pardon, my soveraine leige," he said,
"O pardon my eight score men and
mee."
"Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor
strong,
For thy eight score men nor thee;
For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock,
Both thou and them shall hang on the
gallow-tree."
But Jonne looked over his left shoulder,
Good Lord, what a grevious look looked
hee!
Saying, "Asking grace of a graceles face-
Why there is none for you nor me."
THE BALLAD
143
But Jonne had a bright sword by his side,
And it was made of the mettle so free,
That had not the king stept his foot aside,
He had smitten his head from his faire
bodde.
Saying, "Fight on, my merry men all,
And see that none of you be taine;
For rather than men shall say we were
hangd,
Let them report how we were slaine."
Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose,
And so besett poore Jonne rounde,
That fower score and tenn of Jonnes best
men
Lay gasping all upon the ground.
Then like a mad man Jonne laide about,
And like a mad man then fought hee,
Untill a fake Scot came Jonne behinde,
And runn him through the faire boddee.
Saying, "Fight on, my merry men all,
I am a little hurt, but I am not slain;
I will lay me down for to bleed a while,
Then I 'le rise and fight with you again."
Newes then was brought to young Jonne
Armestrong,
As he stood by his nurses knee,
Who vowed if ere he lived for to be a man,
O the treacherous Scots revengd hee 'd
be.
THE DAEMON LOVER
"O WHERE have you been, my long, long
love,
This long seven years and mair?"
"O I'm come to seek my former vows
Ye granted me before."
"O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For they will breed sad strife; .
0 hold your tongue of your former vows,
For I am become a wife."
He turned him right and round about,
And the tear blinded his ee:
"I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground,
If it had not been for thee.
"I might hae had a king's daughter,
Far, far beyond the sea;
I might have had a king's daughter,
Had it not been for love o thee."
"If ye might have had a king's daughter,
Yersel ye had to blame;
Ye might have had taken the king's
daughter,
For ye kend that I was nane.
"If I was to leave my husband dear,
And my two babes also,
0 what have you to take me to,
If with you I should go? "
" I hae seven ships upon the sea —
The eighth brought me to land —
With four-and-twenty bold mariners,
And music on every hand."
She has taken up her two little babes,
Kissd them baith cheek and chin:
"0 fair ye weel, my ain two babes,
For I'll never see you again."
She set her foot upon the ship,
No mariners could she behold;
But the sails were o the taffetie,
And the masts o the beaten gold.
She had not sailed a league, a league.
A league but barely three,
When dismal grew his countenance,
And drumlie grew his ee.
They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
Until she espied his cloven foot,
And she wept right bitterlie.
"O hold your tongue of your weeping,"
says he,
"Of your weeping now let me be;
1 will shew you how the lilies grow
On the banks of Italy."
"O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,
That the sun shines sweetly on?"
"O yon are the hills of heaven," he said,
"Where you will never win."
144
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
"O whaten a mountain is yon," she said,
"All so dreary wi frost and snow?"
"O yon is the mountain of hell," he cried,
"Where you and I will go."
He strack the tap-mast wi his hand,
The fore-mast wi his knee,
And he brake that gallant ship in twain,
And sank her in the sea.
ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
WHEN shawes beene sheene, and shradds
full fayre,
And leeves both large and longe,
It is merry, walking in the fayre fforrest,
To heare the small birds songe.
The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Amongst the leaves a lyne;
And it is by two wight yeomen,
By deare God, that I meane.
"Me thought they did mee beate and
binde,
And tooke my bo we mee froe;
If I bee Robin alive in this lande,
I 'le be wrocken on both them towe."
"Sweavens are swift, master," quoth
John,
"As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
Ffor if itt be never soe lowde this night,
To-morrow it may be still."
"Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men
all,
Ffor John shall goe with mee;
For I 'le goe seeke yond wight yeomen
In greenwood where they bee."
They cast on their gowne of greene,
A shooting gone are they,
Until they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest bee;
There were they ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree.
A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Had beene many a mans bane,
And he was cladd in his capull-hyde,
Topp, and tayle, and mayne.
"Stand you still, master," quoth Litle
John,
"Under this trusty tree,
And I will goe to yond wight yeoman,
To know his meaning trulye."
"A, John, by me thou setts noe store,
And that's a ffarley thinge;
How off t send I my men beffore,
And tarry my-selfe behinde?
"It is noe cunning a knave to ken;
And a man but heare him speake
And itt were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I wold thy head breake."
But often words they breeden bale;
That parted Robin and John.
John is gone to Barnesdale,
The gates he knowes eche one.
And when hee came to Barnesdale,
Great heavinesse there hee hadd;
He ffound two of his fellowes
Were slaine both in a slade,
And Scarlett a-ffoote flyinge was,
Over stockes and stone,
For the sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.
" Yett one shoote I 'le shoote," sayes Litle
John,
"With Crist his might and mayne;
I 'le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast
To be both glad and ffaine."
John bent up a good veiwe bow,
And ffetteled him to shoote;
The bow was made of a tender boughe,
And fell downe to his foote.
"Woe worth thee, wicked wood," sayd
Litle John,
"That ere thou grew on a tree!
Ffor this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee!"
This shoote it was but looselye shott,
The arrowe flew in vaine,
And it mett one of the sheriff es men;
Good William a Trent was slaine.
THE BALLAD
It had beene better for William a Trent
To hange upon a gallowe
Then for to lye in the greenwoode,
There slaine with an arrowe.
And it is sayd, when men be mett,
Six can doe more than three:
And they have tane Litle John,
And bound him ffast to a tree.
"Thou shalt be drawen by dale and
downe," quoth the sheriffe,
"And hanged hye on a hill:"
" But thou may ffayle," quoth Litle John,
"If itt be Christs owne will."
Let us leave talking of Litle John,
For hee is bound fast to a tree,
And talke of Guy and Robin Hood
In the green woode where they bee.
How these two yeomen together they mett,
Under the leaves of lyne,
To see what marchandise they made
Even at that same time.
"Good morrow, good fellow," quoth Sir
Guy;
"Good morrow, good ffellow," quoth
hee;
"Methinkes by this bow thou beares in
thy hand,
A good archer thou seems to bee."
"I am wilfull of my way," quoth Sir
Guye,
"And of my morning tyde:"
"Tie lead the'e through the wood," quoth
Robin,
"Good ffellow, I 'le be thy guide."
"I seeke an outlaw," quoth Sir Guye,
"Men call him Robin Hood;
I had rather meet with him upon a day
Than forty pound of golde."
"If you tow mett, itt wold be scene
whether were better
Afore yee did part awaye;
Let us some other pastime find,
Good ffellow, I thee prav.
"Let us some other masteryes make,
And wee will walke in the woods even;
Wee may chance meet with Robin Hoode
Att some unsett steven."
They cutt them downe the summer
shroggs
Which grew both under a bryar,
And sett them three score rood in twinn,
To shoote the prickes full neare.
"Leade on, good ffellow," sayd Sir Guye,
"Lead on, I doe bidd thee:"
"Nay, by my faith," quoth Robin Hood,
"The leader thou shalt bee."
The first good shoot that Robin ledd,
Did not shoote an inch the pricke ffroe;
Guy was an archer good enoughe,
But he cold neere shoote soe.
The second shoote, Sir Guy shott,
He shott within the garlande;
But Robin Hoode shott it better than
hee,
For he clove the good pricke-wande.
" Gods blessing on thy heart! " sayes Guye,
"Goode ffellow, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hands,
Thou were better then Robin Hood.
"Tell me thy name, good ffellow," quoth
Guy,
"Under the leaves of lyne:"
"Nay, by my faith," quoth good Robin,
"Till thou have told me thine."
"I dwell by dale and downe," quoth
Guye,
"And I have done many a curst turne;
And he that calles me by my right name,
Calles me Guye of good Gysborne."
"My dwelling is in the wood," sayes
Robin ;
"By thee I set right nought;
My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
A ffellow thou has long sought."
He that had neither beene a kithe nor kin
Might have scene a full fayre sight,
I46
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
To see how together these yeomen went,
With blades both browne and bright;
To have seene how these yeomen together
fought
Two howers of a summers day;
Itt was neither Guy nor Robin Hood
That ffettled them to flye away.
Robin was reacheles on a roote,
And stumbled at that tyde,
And Guy was quicke and nimble withall,
And hitt him ore the left side.
"Ah, deere Lady!" sayd Robin Hoode,
"Thou art both mother and may!
I thinke it was never mans destinye
To dye before his day."
Robin thought on Our Lady deere,
And soone leapt up againe,
And thus he came with an awkwarde
stroke;
Good Sir Guy hee has slayne.
He tooke Sir Guys head by the hayre,
And sticked itt on his bowes end:
"Thou hast beene traytor all thy liffe,
Which thing must have an ende."
Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
And nicked Sir Guy in the fface,
That hee was never on a woman borne
Cold tell who Sir Guye was.
Saies, "Lye there, lye there, good Sir
Guye,
And with me be not wrothe;
If thou have had the worse stroakes at
my hand,
Thou shalt have the better cloathe."
Robin did off his gowne of greene,
Sir Guye hee did it throwe;
And hee put on that capull-hyde
That cladd him topp to toe.
"The bowe, the arrows, and litle home,
And with me now I 'le beare;
Ffor now I will goe to Barnesdale
To see how my men doe ffare."
Robin sett Guyes home to his mouth,
A lowd blast in it he did blow;
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.
"Hearken! hearken!" sayd the sheriffe,
"I heard noe ty dings but good;
For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home
blowe,
For he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
"For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home
blow,
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
For yonder comes that wighty yeoman,
Cladd in his capull-hyde.
" Come hither, thou good Sir Guy,
Aske of mee.what thou wilt have:"
"I'le none of thy gold," sayes Robin
Hood,
"Nor I 'le none of itt have.
"But now I have slaine the master," he
sayd,
"Let me goe strike the knave;
This is all the reward I aske,
Nor noe other will I have."
"Thou art a madman," said the shiriffe,
"Thou sholdest have had a knights
ffee;
Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd,
Well granted it shall be."
But Litle John heard his master speake,
Well he knew that was his Steven ;
"Now shall I be loset," quoth Litle
John,
"With Christs might in heaven."
But Robin hee hyed him towards Litle
John,
Hee thought hee wold loose him belive;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him did drive.
"Stand abacke! stand abacke!" sayd
Robin;
"Why draw you mee soe neere?
Itt was never the use in our countrye
Ones shrift another shold heere."
THE BALLAD
147
But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
And losed John hand and ffoote,
And gave him Sir Guyes bow in his hand,
And bade it be his boote.
Hut John tooke Guyes bow in his hand —
His arrowes were rawstye by the roote;
The sherriffe saw Litle John draw a bow
And iTettlc him to shoote.
Towards his house in Nottingam
He ffled full fast away,
And soe did all his companyc,
Not one behind did stay.
But he cold neither soe fast goe,
Nor away soe fast runn,
But Litle John, with an arrow broade,
Did cleve his heart in twinn.
MODERN IMITATIONS OF THE BALLAD
JOHN KEATS (1795-1821)
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
Alone and palely loitering!
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
0 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
1 see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
K;is( willicreth too.
i met a (ady in the meads,
Full beautiful — a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
Lmade a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long.
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said-
" 1 love thee true."
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dreamed — Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill's side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried — "La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing. (1820)
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
(1828-1882)
SISTER HELEN
"WHY did you melt your waxen man,
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began."
"The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and
Heaven /)
148
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
"But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,
You '11 let me play, for you said I might."
"Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,
Sister Helen;
If now it be molten, all is well."
"Even so, — nay, peace! you cannot tell,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
0 what is this, between Hell and Heaven ?)
"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day,
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropped away ! "
"Nay now, of the dead what can you
say,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven ?}
"See, see, the sunken pile of wood,
Sister Helen,
Shines through the thinned wax red as
blood!"
"Nay now, when looked you yet on
blood,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven !}
"Now close your eyes, for they're sick
and sore,
Sister Helen,
And I '11 play without the gallery door."
"Aye, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What rest to-night, between Hell and
Heaven ?)
"Here high up in the balcony,
Sister Helen,
The moon flies face to face with me."
"Aye, look and say whatever you see,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What sight to-night, between Hell ana
Heaven ?}
" Outside it 's merry in the wind's wake,
Sister Helen;
In the shaken trees the chill stars
shake."
"Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you
spake,
Litt'e brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What sound to-night, between Hell and
Heaven ?}
"I hear a horse-tread, and I see,
Sister Helen,
Three horsemen that ride terribly."
"Little brother, whence come the three,
Little brother? "
(O Mother, Mary Mother.
Whence should they come, between Hell
and Heaven ?}
"They come by the hill- verge from Boyne
Bar,
Sister Helen,
And one draws nigh, but two are afar."
"Look, look, do you know them who
they are,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Who should they be, between Hell and
Heaven ?}
"Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast,
Sister Helen,
For I know the white mane on the blast."
"The hour has come, has come at last,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven /)
"He has made a sign and called Halloo!
Sister Helen,
And he says that he wouM speak with
you."
"Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Why laughs she thus, between Hell and
Heaven /)
THE BALLAD
149
"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry,
Sister Helen,
That Keith of Ewern's like to die."
"And he and thou, and thou and I,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
And they and we, between Hell and Heaven I)
"Three days ago, on his marriage-morn,
Sister Helen,
He sickened, and lies since then forlorn."
"For bridegroom's side is the bride a
thorn,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Cold brtdal cheer, between Hell and
Heaven !)
"Three days and nights he has lam abed,
Sister Helen,
And he prays in torment to be dead."
"The thing may chance, if he have
prayed,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven!)
"But he has not ceased to cry to-day,
Sister Helen,
That you should take your curse away."
"My prayer was heard, — he need but
pray,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Shall God not hear between Hell and
Heaven ?)
"But he says, till you take back your
ban,
Sister Helen
His soul would pass, yet never can."
"Nay then, shall I slay a living man,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
A living sold, between Hell and Heaven!)
"But he calls for ever on your name,
Sister Helen,
And says that he melts before a flame."
" My heart for his pleasure fared the same,
Little brother."
0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Fire at the heart, between Hell and
Heaven !)
"Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast,
Sister Helen
For I know the white plume on the blast."
"The hour, the sweet hour I forecast,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven ?)
"He stops to speak, and he stills his horse,
Sister Helen;
But his words are drowned in the wind's
course."
"Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear
perforce,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What word now heard, between Hett and
Heaven ?)
"Oh he says that Keith of Ewern's cry,
Sister Helen,
Is ever to see you ere he die."
" In all that his soul sees, there am I,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
The scnd's one sight, between Hell and
Heaven!)
"He sends a ring and a broken coin,
Sister Helen,
And bids you mind the banks of Boyne."
"What else he broke will he ever join,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
No, never joined, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"He yields you these and craves full fain,
Sister Helen,
You pardon him in his mortal pain."
" What else he took will he give again,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven !)
" He calls your name in an agony,
Sister Helen,
That even dead Love must weep to see."
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
"Hate, born of Love, is blind as he,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Love turned to hate, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides
fast,
Sister Helen,
For I know the white hair on the blast."
"The short, short hour will soon be past,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Will soon be past, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"He looks at me and he tries to speak,
Sister Helen,
But oh! his voice is sad and weak! "
"What here should the mighty Baron
seek,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven ?}
"Oh his son still cries, if you forgive,
Sister Helen,
The body dies, but the soul shall live."
"Fire shall forgive me as I forgive,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven /)
"Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive,
Sister Helen,
To save his dear son's soul alive."
"Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven /)
"He cries to you, kneeling in the road,
Sister Helen,
To go with him for the love of God ! "
"The way is long to his son's abode,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
The way is long, between Hell and Heaven /)
"A lady's here, by a dark steed brought,
Sister Helen,
So darkly clad, I saw her not."
"See her now or never see aught,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What more to see, between Hell and Heaven ?}
"Her hood falls back, and the moon
shines fair,
Sister Helen,
On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair."
"Blest hour of my power and her despair,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did
glow,
Sister Helen,
'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago."
"One morn for pride and three days for
woe,
Little brother!"
(O Mother Mary Mother,
Three days, three nights, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"Her clasped hands stretch from her bend-
ing head,
Sister Helen;
With the loud wind's wail her sobs are
wed."
"What wedding-strains hath her bridal-
bed,
Little brother? '
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What strain but death's, between Hell and
Heaven ?}
"She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon,
Sister Helen,
She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon."
"Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe
tune,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and
Heaven /)
;
"They've caught her to Westholm's
saddle-bow,
Sister Helen,
THE BALLAD
And her moonlit hair gleams white in
its flow."
"Let it turn whiter than winter snow,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Woe-withered gold, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"O Sister Helen, you heard the bell,
Sister Helen!
More loud than the vesper-chime it fell."
"No vesper-chime, but a dying knell,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
His dying knell, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"Alas! but I fear the heavy sound,
Sister Helen;
Is it in the sky or in the ground? "
"Say, have they turned their horses
round,
Little brother?"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
What would she more, between Hell and
Heaven ?}
"They have raised the old man from his
knee.
Sister Helen,
And they ride in silence hastily."
"More fast the naked soul doth flee,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
The
naked soul,
Heaven /)
between Hell and
"Flank to flank are the three steeds gone,
Sister Helen,
But the lady's dark steed goes alone."
"And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath
flown,
Little brother."
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven /)
"Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill,
Sister Helen,
And weary sad they look by the hill."
"But he and I are sadder still,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Most sad of all, between Hell and
Heaven /)
"See, see, the wax has dropped from its
place,
Sister Helen,
And the flames are whining up apace!"
"Yet here they burn but for a space,
Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven /)
"Ah! what white thing at the door has
cross'd,
Sister Helen?
Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?"
" A soul that's lost as mine is lost,
Little Brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and
Heaven /)
(1870)
IV
LYRIC POETRY
JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD
BACK and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand, go cold:
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old!
I can not eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But, sure, I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I am nothing a-cold,
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side, go bare, go bare, etc.
(Chorus)
I love no roast, but a nut-brown toast
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire.
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold,
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt
Of jolly good ale and old. (Chorus)
And Tyb, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek;
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl,
Even as a malt-worm should,
And saith, "Sweet heart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old." (Chorus)
Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls
Or have them lustily trolled,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old ! (Chorus)
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586)
SONNET xxxi
WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st
the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face !
What, may it be that even in heavenly
place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted
eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's
case,
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of
wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they
be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth
possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
GEORGE PEELE (i558?-i$97?)
SONG FROM THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS
(ENONE. Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fak as any may be;
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any lady.
PARIS. Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone,
And for no other lady.
(EN. My love is fair, my love is gay,
As fresh as bin the flowers in
May,
LYRIC POETRY
And of my love my roundelay,
My merry, merry roundelay,
Concludes with Cupid's curse, —
" They that do change old love for
new,
Pray gods they change for worse!"
AMBO SIMUL. They that do change, etc.
iEN. Fair and fair, etc.
PAR. Fair and fair, etc.
Thy love is fair, etc.
QEN. My love can pipe, my love can sing,
My love can many a pretty thing,
And of his lovely praises ring
My merry, merry roundelays,
Amen to Cupid's curse, —
"They that do change," etc.
PAR. They that do change, etc.
AMBO. Fair and fair, etc.
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631)
BALLAD OF AGINCOURT
FAIR stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance;
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing, day by day,
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general lay
With all his power.
Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide,
To the King sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet, with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
"Though they to one be ten
Be not amazed!
Yet have we well begun:
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By Fame been raised!
"And for myself," quoth he,
"This my full rest shall be:
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me!
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me!
"Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell.
Under our swords they felL
No less our skill is,
Than when our Grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies."
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vanward led;
With the main, Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen;
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there!
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone;
Armor on armor shone;
Drum now to drum did groan:
To hear, was wonder;
That, with the cries they make*
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake;
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
154
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
With Spanish yew so strong;
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather.
None from his fellow starts;
But, playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboes drew,
And on the French they flew:
Not one was tardy.
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went:
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble King,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhehn it.
And many a deep wound lent;
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother.
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden Lnight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another!
Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford, the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily;
Ferrers, and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's Day
Fought was this noble fray;
Which Fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O, when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
(1564-1616)
SONGS FROM THE PLAYS
FROM "LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST"
WHEN icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
"Tu-whit, tu-who!" a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw.
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
"Tu-whit, tu-who!" a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
FROM "As You LIKE IT"
UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither! come hither! come hither I
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither! come hither! come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
LYRIC POETRY
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green
hoUy:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving
mere folly:
Then, heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky!
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot;
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! etc.
FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT"
0 MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love 's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 't is not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth 's a stuff will not endure.
FROM "MEASURE FOR MEASURE"
TAKE, 0, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Bring again;
Seals of love, but sealed in vain,
Sealed hi vain!
SONNETS
XXIX
WHEN in disgrace with fortune and men's
eyes,
1 all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless
cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends
possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's
scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost de-
spising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's
gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth
brings
That then I scorn to change my state with
kings.
xxxni
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign
eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows
green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all- triumphant splendor on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath masked him from
me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit dis-
daineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's
sun staineth.
LV
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rime;
But you shall shine more bright in these
contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with slut-
tish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire
shall burn
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still
find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending
doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
LX
Like as the waves make towards the peb-
bled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes
before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being
crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift
confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on
youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to
mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall
stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
LXVI
Tired with all these, for restful death I
cry —
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would
I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
LXXIII
That tune of year thou mayst in me
behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do
hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the
cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet
birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take
away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in
rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nour-
ished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love
more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave
ere long.
xcvn
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days
seen!
What old December's bareness every-
where!
And yet this time removed was summer's
time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich in-
crease,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lord's de-
cease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's
near.
XCVIII
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dressed in all his
trim
LYRIC POETRY
157
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped
with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet
smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where
they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of de-
light,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow, I with these did play.
xcix
The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy
sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple
pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion
dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly
dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair.
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of
both
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or color it had stol'n from thee.
civ
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three win-
ters cold
Have from the forests shook three sum-
mers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn
turned
in process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes
burned
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are
green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure and no pace perceived ;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still
doth stand,
Hath motion and mine eye may be de-
ceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age un-
bred:
Ere you were born was beauty's summer
dead.
cvi
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's
best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have ex-
pressed
Even such a beauty as you master now-
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our tune, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining
eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to
sing:
For we, which now behold these present
days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to
praise.
cxvi
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
0, no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never
shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his
height be taken.
Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips
and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and
weeks,
158
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
SIR HENRY WOTTON (1568-1639)
CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE
How happy is he born and taught
That serve th not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise
Nor vice; Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
Who hath his life from rumors freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;
— This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
THOMAS DEKKER (is7o?-i638?)
THE HAPPY HEART
ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum-
bers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd
To add to golden numbers, golden num-
bers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny , hey nonny nonny !
Canst drink the waters of the crisped
spring?
O sweet content!
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in
thine own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want's burden
bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
BEN JONSON (iS73?-i637)
SONG TO CELIA
DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I '11 not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.
HYMN TO DIANA
QUEEN and Huntress, chaste and
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellentlv bright.
fair
,YRIC POETRY
159
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!
JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625)
MELANCHOLY
HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There 's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that 's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon.
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy
valley;
Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melan-
choly.
GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667)
THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION
SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die, because a woman 's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads hi May!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Should my heart be grieved or pined,
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle dove, or pelican!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well deserving known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her, name of best!
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool, and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think "What, with them, they would do
That, without them, dare to woo!"
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair!
If she love me (this believe!)
I will die, ere she shall grieve!
If she slight me, when I woo,
I can scorn, and let her go!
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674)
UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES
WHENAS in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration, each way free,
O, how that glittering taketh me!
I6o
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
To THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he 's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he 's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
To DAFFODILS
FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON
AH, BEN!
Say how or when
Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyric feasts,
Made at the Sun,
The Dog, the Triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had,
As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine
Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben!
Or come again,
Or send to us
Thy wit's great overplus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it,
Lest we that talent spend;
And having once brought to an end
That precious stock, the store
Of such a wit the world should have no
more.
JAMES SHIRLEY ^1596-1666)
THE GLORIES OF OUR BLOOD AND STATE
THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they
kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty
deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor- victim bleeds:
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
LYRIC POETRY
161
EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687)
Go LOVELY ROSE!
Go, LOVELY Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that 's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
JOHN MELTON (1608-1674)
SONNET (ON His BLINDNESS)
WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and
wide,
And that one talent which is death to
hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul
more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning
chide, —
Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?
I fondly ask: — But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies; God doth not
need
Either man's work, or his own gifts: who
best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best:
His state
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without
rest: —
They also serve who only stand and wait.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1609-1642)
THE CONSTANT LOVER
OUT upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together!
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.
But the spite on 't is, no praise
Is due at all to me:
Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,
And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.
WHY So PALE AND WAN?
WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame ! This will not move;
This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!
102
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658)
To LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS
TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe hi the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As thou too shalt adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honor more.
To ALTHEA, FROM PRISON
WHEN Love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled hi her hair
And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief hi wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple hi the deep
Know no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat will sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695)
THE WORLD
I SAW Eternity the other night,
Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright;
And round beneath it, Tune, in hours,
days, years,
Driv'n by the spheres
Like a vast shadow moved; hi which the
world
And all her train were hurled.
The doting lover in his quaintest strain
Did there complain;
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
Wit's four delights,
With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of
pleasure,
Yet his dear treasure,
All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour
Upon a flower.
The darksome statesman, hung with
weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so
slow,
He did not stay, nor go;
Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses,
scowl
Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout.
Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be
found,
Worked under ground,
Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
That policy;
Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
Were gnats and flies;
It rained about him blood and tears, but he
Drank them as free.
The fearful miser on a heap of rust
Sat pining all his life there, did scarce
trust
His own hands with the dust,
LYTIC POETRY
163
Yet would not place one piece above, but
lives
In fear of thieves.
Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
And hugged each one his pelf;
The downright epicure placed heaven in
sense,
And scorned pretence;
While others, slipt into a wide excess,
Said little less;
The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares en-
slave,
Who think them brave;
And poor, despised Truth sat counting by
Their victory.
Yet some, who all this while did weep and
sing,
And sing and weep, soared up into the
ring;
But most would use no whig.
O fools, said I, thus to prefer dark night
Before true light!
To live in grots and caves, and hate the
day
Because it shows the way,
The way, which from this dead and dark
abode
Leads up to God;
A way there you might tread the sun,
and be
More bright then he!
But, as I did their madness so discuss,
One whispered thus
"This ring the Bridegroom did for none
provide,
But for his bride."
JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700)
ALEXANDER'S FEAST
OR THE POWER OF Music
A SONG IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY
I
T WAS at the royal feast for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne;
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles
bound
(So should desert in arms be crowned).
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy, pair'
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
CHORUS: Happy, happy, happy pair, etc,
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above
(Such is the power of mighty love).
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pressed:
And while he sought her snowy breast,
Then round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a
sovereign of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty
sound,
A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity the vaulted roofs re-
bound:
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
CHORUS: With ravished ears, etc.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet
musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.
Ib4
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flushed with a purple grace
He shows his honest face:
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes,
he comes.
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
CHORUS: Bacchus' blessings are a treas-
ure, etc.
Soothed with the sound the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice
he slew the slain.
The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse,
Soft pity to infuse;
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed!
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor
sate,
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
CHORUS: Revolving in his altered soul,
etc.
The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
'T was but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honor but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud ap-
plause;
So love was crowned, but Music won the
cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and
looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again;
At length, with love and wine at once
oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her
breast.
CHORUS: The prince, unable to conceal
his pain, etc.
Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of
thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has raised up his head;
As awaked from the dead,
And amazed, he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies arise;
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their
eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle
were slain,
And unburied remain
LYRIC POETRY
165
Inglorious on the plain:
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy;
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal
to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fired another
Troy.
CHORUS: And the king seized a flambeau
with zeal to destroy, etc.
Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft
desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred
store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts un-
known before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.
GRAND CHORUS:
came, etc.
At last divine Cecilia
(1697)
THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771)
ELEGY
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary
way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to
me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on
the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning
flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant
folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon com-
plain
Of such, as wandering near her secret
bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's
shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould-
ering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet
sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing
Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-
built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing
horn,
No more shall rouse them from their
lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall
burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to
share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has
broke;
How jocund did they drive their team
afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their
sturdy stroke !
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
i66
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth
e'er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the
fault,
If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies
raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and
fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of
praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting
breath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery sooth the dull cold ear of
Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial
fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have
swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample
page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er
unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean
bear;
Full many a flower is bom to blush un-
seen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert
air.
Some village-Hampden, that with daunt-
less breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may
rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's
blood.
The applause of listening senates to com-
mand,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes
confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a
throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on man-
kind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to
hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous
shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's
flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble
strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to
stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their
way.
Yet even these bones from insult to pro-
tect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculp-
ture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the un-
lettered muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful
day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look be-
hind?
LYRIC POETRY
167
On some fond breast the parting soul re-
lies,
Some pious drops the closing eye re-
quires ;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature
cries,
Ev'n hi our Ashes live their wonted
Fires.
For thee, who mindful of the unhonored
Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale re-
late,
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy
fate,
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of
dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There at the foot of yonder nodding
beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so
high,
His listless length at noontide would he
stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles
by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in
scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would
rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one for-
lorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hope-
less love.
"One morn I missed him on the customed
hill,
Along the heath and near his favorite
tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was
he;
"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we
saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou can'st read)
the lay,
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged
thorn."
THE EPITAPH
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame un-
known.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble
birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('t was all he
wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread
abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.
ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)
HIGHLAND MARY
YE BANKS, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel,
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
i68
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But O! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mould'ring now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
(i799)
BONIE BOON
YE FLOWERY banks o' bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care?
Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days,
When my fause luve was true.
Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate:
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon
To see the wood-bine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw my rose
But left the thorn wi' me.
(1808)
SCOTS WHA HAE
SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now 's the day, and now 's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power —
Chains and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa',
Let him follow me !
By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow! —
Let us do or die!
(i794)
A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT
Is THERE, for honest poverty,
That hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp ;
The man 's the gowd for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, an' a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man 's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He 's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
His riband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
LYRIC POETRY
169
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man 's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth
May bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It 's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
(1800)
FROM "LINES TO JOHN LAPRAIK"
1 AM nae Poet, in a sense,
But just a Rhymer like by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence;
Yet what the matter?
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"
But, by your leave, my learned foes
Ye 're maybe wrang.
What 's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools?
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye 'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!
Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,
That 's a' the learnin I desire;
Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
(1786)
To A MOUSE
ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785
WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic 's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickerin brattle!
1 wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'rin pattle!
I 'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-bora companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:
What then, poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I '11 get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss 't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
0' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here beneath the blast
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou 's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble
An' cranreuch cauldl
170
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promis'd joy.
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my ee
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
(1786)
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(1770-1850)
THE PRELUDE
FROM BOOK I
WISDOM and Spirit of the universe!
Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought,
That givest to forms and images a
breath
And everlasting motion, not in vain
By day or star-light thus from my first
dawn
Of childhood didst thou' intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human
soul;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of
man,
But with high objects, with enduring
things —
With life and nature — purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying, by such discipline,
Both pain and fear, until we recognize
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November
days,
When vapors rolling down the valley made
A lonely scene more lonesome, among
woods,
At noon and 'mid the calm of summer
nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine;
Mine was it in the fields both day and
night,
And by the waters, all the summer long.
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and visible for many a mile
The cottage windows blazed through twi-
light gloom,
I heeded not their summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us — for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled
about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home. All shod
with steel,
We hissed along the polished ice in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding
horn,
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted
hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we
flew,
And not a voice was idle; with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the
stars
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the
west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous
throng,
To cut across the reflex of a star
That fled, and, flying still before me,
gleamed
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the
wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spin-
ning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
LYRIC POETRY
171
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had
rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and
watched
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.
(1850)
LINES
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN
ABBEY ON REVISITING THE BANKS OP
THE WYE DURING A TOUR
JULY 13, 1798
FIVE years have past; five summers, with
the length
Of five long winters ! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-
springs
With a soft inland murmur — Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and con-
nect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these or-
chard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe
fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose them-
selves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I
see
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little
lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral
farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of
smoke
Sent up in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might
seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his
fire
The hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to
me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration: — feelings, too,
Of unremembered pleasure: such perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's
_ life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed
mood,
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened: — that serene and blessed
mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on, —
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the
power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft —
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through
the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extin-
guished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing
thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
172
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
For future years. And so I dare to hope.
Though changed, no doubt, from what I
was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads,
than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For na-
ture then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all
gone by)
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy
wood,
Their colors and their forms, were then to
me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is
past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other
gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would be-
lieve,
Abundant recompense. For I have
learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often-
times
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample
power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting
suns, •
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of
man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all
thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore
am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we be-
hold
From this green earth; of all the mighty
world
Of eye, and ear, — both what they half
create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recog-
nize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts the
nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and
soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the
more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay :
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest
Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I
catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I
make
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 't is her privilege
Through all the years of this our life,
lead
From joy to joy : for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil
tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfis
men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor
all
The dreary intercourse of daily We,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we
hold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the
moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
LYRIC POETRY
173
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be ma-
tured
Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh!
then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing
thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, per-
chance —
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes
these gleams
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful
stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love — oh! with far deeper
zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty
cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to
me
More dear, both for themselves and for
thy sake!
THE SOLITARY REAPER
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain,
0 listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings? —
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending; —
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
(1807)
ODE TO DUTY
STERN Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love,
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm'st the weary strife of frail
humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth;
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
O! if through confidence misplaced they
fail..
Thy saving arms, dread Power! around
them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
174
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to
their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly,
if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their
name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through
Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let
me live!
(1807)
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR
WHO is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?
It is the generous Spirit, who, when
brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish
thought:
Whose high endeavors are an inward light
That makes the path before him always
bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent
to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care;
Who doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train !
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest
dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes,
bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good re-
ceives;
By objects, which might force the soul to
abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;
Is placable — because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skillful in self-knowledge, even more
pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Thence, also more alive to tenderness.
'T is he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted
still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labors good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows;
Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stam
On honorable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to th
same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in
wait
For wealth, or honors or for worldly state
Whom they must follow; on whose heac
must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all
Whose powers shed round him in the com
mon strife,
LYRIC POETRY
175
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace ;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has
joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man in-
spired;
And, through the heat of conflict keeps the
law
In calmness made, and sees what he fore-
saw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
He who though thus endued as with a
sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this that he hath much to
love: —
'T is, finally, the Man, who. lifted high
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity, —
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be
won:
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand
fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the
earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name,
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering,
draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's ap-
plause:
This is the happy Warrior; this is He
Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.
(1807)
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE
SEPT. 3, 1802
EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass
by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples
lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless
air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
(1807)
IT is A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND
FREE
IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free.
The holy time is quiet as a Nun,
Breathless with adoration: the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the
sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder — everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with
me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn
thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the
year,
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner
shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
(1807)
THE WORLD is TOO MUCH WITH Us
THE world is too much with us: late and
soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our
powers;
176
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid
boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the
moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping
flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less
forlorn ;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
(1807)
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
(1772-1834)
KUBLA KHAN
IN XANADU did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
i So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous
rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing
tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which
slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was
haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless tur-
moil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were
breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding
hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and
ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river
ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to
man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of
ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dreaa,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
(1816)
CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834)
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES
I HAVE had playmates, I have had com-
panions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful
school-days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
LYRIC POETRY
177
1 have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom
cronies;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see
her —
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my
childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to trav-
erse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a
brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's
dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces —
How some they have died, and some they
have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are
departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
(1798)
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
(1775-1864)
ROSE AYLMER
AH, WHAT avails the sceptered race,
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee. (1806)
ON His SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY
I STROVE with none, for none was worth
my strife,
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND
A NAVAL ODE
YE MARINERS of England
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe,
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave ! —
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below —
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
(1801)
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC
OF NELSON and the North
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly
shone:
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat
Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line;
It was ten of April morn by the chime;
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between. —
"Hearts of oak!''" our captain cried; when
each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back; —
Their shots along the deep slowly boom: —
Then ceased — and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o'er the wave;
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save;
So peace instead of death let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
With the crews at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King."
Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrewhis shades from the day ;
While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Now joy, old England, raise
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amid that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
Brave hearts: to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou, —
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their
grave !
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave! (1803)
HOHENLINDEN
ON LINDEN, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And, louder than the bolts of Heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
LYRIC POETRY
179
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'T is morn ; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.
(1803)
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1784-1842)
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA
A WET sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast
And fills the white and rustling sail
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While like the eagle free
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind !
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free —
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There 's tempest in yon horned moon
And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free —
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER
("BARRY CORNWALL" 1787-1874)
THE SEA
THE sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the
skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I 'm on the sea! I 'm on the sea!
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;
If a storm should come and awake the
deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, Oh, how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's
nest;
And a mother she was, and is, to me;
For I was born on the open sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise
rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean-child!
I Ve lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend, and a power to
range,
But never have sought nor sighed for
change;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!
i8o
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
LORD BYRON (1788-1824)
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-
place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
(1815)
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
(1792-1822)
To A SKYLARK
HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring
ever singest.
In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just
begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven
In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill
delight,
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven
is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of
melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it
heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows
her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen
it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes fault with too much sweet the
heavy-winged thieves.
LYRIC POETRY
181
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music
doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so
divine :
Chorus Hymenseal,
Or triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hid-
den want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what igno-
rance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be —
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad
satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a
crystal stream?
We look before and after
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of
saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should
come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound —
Better than all treasures
That in books are found —
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the
ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then — as I am
listening now.
(1820)
ODE TO THE WEST WIND
i
O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Au-
tumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the
leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter
fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic
red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and
low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and
fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in
air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O, near!
182
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
ii
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's
commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves
are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven
and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are
spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim
verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm.
Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing
night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulcher,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst:
O, hear!
in
Thou who didst waken from his summer
dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline
streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faults picturing them!
Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far
below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which
wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with
fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O,
hear!
rv
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and
share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over
heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have
striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore
need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and
bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and
proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal
tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit
fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new
birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among man-
kind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
LYRIC POETRY
183
The trumpet of a prophecy! 0 wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far be-
hind?
(1820)
THE INDIAN SERENADE
I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me — who knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream —
The Champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart; —
As I must on thine,
O! beloved as thou art!
0 lift me from the grass!
1 die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast; —
Oh! press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last.
(1822)
OZYMANDIAS
I MET a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs
of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the
sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose
frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold com-
mand,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions
read
Which yet survive (stamped on these
lifeless things),
The hand that mocked them and the heart
that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and de-
spair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the de-
cay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
(1819)
JOHN KEATS (1795-1821)
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN
THOU still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow
time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our
rhyme:
What leaf -fringed legend haunts about thy
shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Teinpe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What
maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to es-
cape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild
ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those un-
heard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,
play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more en-
deared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst
not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be
bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou
kiss
Though winning near the goal — yet, do
not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not
thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be
fair!
1 84
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring
adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love !
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and
cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching
tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious
priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands
dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious
morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens over
wrought,
With forest branches and the trodden
weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of
thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation
waste,
Thou shalt remain, hi midst of other
woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou
say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"— that
is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to
know. (1820)
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE
MY HEART aches, and a drowsy numbness
pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had
drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had
sunk:
'T is not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happi-
ness.—
That thou, light winged Dryad of the
trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows number-
less,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved
earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-
burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippo-
crene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the
brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world
unseen,
And with thee fade away into the
forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never
known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other
groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray
hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and specter-
thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of
sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous
eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-
morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards.
LYRIC POETRY
18$
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and re-
tards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her
throne,
Clustered around by all her starry
Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the
breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and wind-
ing mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the
boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each
sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month en-
dows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree
wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglan-
tine;
Fast fading violets covered up in
leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy
wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on sum-
mer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful
Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused
rime,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no
pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul
abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears
in vain —
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal
Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down :
The voice I hear this passing night was
heard
In ancient, days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a
path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when,
sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn:
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on
the foam
Of perilous seas, hi faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole
self!
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf,
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still
stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 't is buried
deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: — Do I wake or
sleep?
(1819)
To AUTUMN
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun :
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the
thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-
trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the
core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the
hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never
cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their
clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may
find
i86
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing
wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while
thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its
twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost
keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours
by hou^s.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where
are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music
too, —
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying
day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy
hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats
mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or
dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly
bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing: and now with
treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-
croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the
skies.
(1820)
HYMN TO PAN
O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth
hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life,
death
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels
darken;
And through whole solemn hours dost
sit, and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds —
In desolate places, where dank moisture
breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou
now,
By thy love's milky brow!
By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!
O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet,
turtles
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong
.myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the
side
Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to
whom
Broad leaved fig trees even now fore-doom
Then* ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village
leas
Their fairest-blossom'd beans and pop-
pied corn;
The chuckling linnet its five young un-
born,
To sing for thee; low creeping straw
berries
Their summer coolness; pent up butter-
flies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh bud-
ding year
All its completions — be quickly near,
By every wind that nods the mountain
pine,
O forester divine!
Thou, to whom every faun and satyr
flies
For willing service; whether to surprise
The squatted hare while in half sleeping
fit;
Or upward ragged precipices flit
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's
maw;
Or by mysterious enticement draw
Bewildered shepherds to their path again ;
Or to tread breathless round the frothy maint
LYRIC POETRY
187
And gather up all fancifullest shells
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-
peeping;
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the
crown
With silvery oak apples, and fir cones
brown —
By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king!
O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the
horn,
When snouted wild-boars routing tender
corn
Anger our huntsman: Breather round our
farms,
To keep off mildews, and all weather
harms:
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
That come a swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors:
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge — see,
Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their
vows
With leaves about their brows!
Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
Then leave the naked brain: be still the
leaven,
That spreading in this dull and clodded
earth
Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth:
Be still a symbol of immensity;
A firmament reflected in a sea;
An element filling the space between;
An unknown — but no more: we humbly
screen
foreheads, lowly
With
our
uplift hands
bending,
And giving out a
rending,
Conjure thee to receive our humble
Paean,
Upon thy Mount Lycean!
shout most heaven-
(1818)
MUCH have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms
seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his de-
mesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and
bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild sur-
mise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
(1816)
THOMAS HOOD (1798-1845)
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
ONE more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly.
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
i88
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family —
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window to casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled —
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly —
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran —
Over the brink of it,
Picture it — think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest —
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
LYRIC POETRY
189
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
(1803-1882)
DAYS*
DAUGHTERS of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and faggots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds
them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the
pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
d857)
HENRY WADSWORTH
LONGFELLOW (1807-1882)
SONNETS*
PREFACED TO HIS TRANSLATION OF DANTE
OFT have I seen at some cathedral door
A. laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent
feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;
Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day,
And leave my burden at this minster gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to
pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait.
How strange the sculptures that adorn
these towers!
This crowd of statues, in whose folded
sleeves
•Reprinted by permission of the Houghton MIfflin Co.
Birds build their nests; while canopied
with leaves
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised
bowers,
And the vast minster seems a cross of
flowers!
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled
eaves
Watch the dead Christ between the living
thieves,
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!
Ah! From what agonies of heart and
brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hatr
of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
This mediaeval miracle of song!
I enter, and I see thee in the gloom
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
And strive to make my steps keep pace
with thine.
The air is rilled with some unknown per-
fume;
The congregation of the dead make room
For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves
of pine,
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to
tomb.
From the confessionals I hear arise
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,
And lamentations from the crypts below.
And then a voice celestial that begins
With the pathetic words, "Although your
sins
As scarlet be," and ends with "as the
snow.
0 star of morning and of liberty!
O bringer of the light, whose splendor
shines
Above the darkness of the Apennines,
Forerunner of the day that is to be!
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
The voices of the city and the sea,
The voices of the mountains and the pines,
Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines
Are footpaths for the thought of Italy!
Thy fame is blown abroad from all the
heights,
Through all the nations; and a sound is
heard,
As of a mighty wind, and men devout,
Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,
In their own language hear thy wondrous
word,
And many are amazed and many doubt.
EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849)
To HELEN
HELEN, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicaean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! hi yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land! (1831)
ISRAFEL
And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a
lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's
creatures. — Koran.
IN HEAVEN a spirit doth dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute;
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven)
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings,
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty,
Where Love 's a grown-up God,
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest:
Merrily live, and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit :
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute:
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely — flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky. (1831)
THE CITY IN THE SEA
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
LYRIC POETRY
191
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst
and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lif ting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-tune of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently,
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free:
Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls,
Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls,
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers,
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye, —
Not the gayly-jewelled dead,
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas,
Along that wilderness of glass;
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea;
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene!
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave — there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide;
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy heaven!
The waves have now a redder glow,
The hours are breathing faint and low;
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
(1831-1845)
THE RAVEN
ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I
pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of
forgotten lore, —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly
there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at
my chamber door.
" T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping
at my chamber door:
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the
bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought
its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I
had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sor-
row for the lost Lenore,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the
angels name Lenore:
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of
each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic ter-
rors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my
heart, I stood repeating
" 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at
my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at
my chamber door:
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitat-
ing then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your
forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently
you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping
at my chamber door.
IQ2
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
That I scarce was sure I heard you" —
here I opened wide the door: —
Darkness there and nothing
more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I
stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal
ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the
stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the
whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured
back the word, "Lenore:"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my
soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat
louder than before.
" Surely," said I, "surely that is something
at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this
mystery explore;
Let my heart be still a moment and this
mystery explore:
'T is the wind and nothing
more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with
many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the
saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a
minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched
above my chamber door,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above
my chamber door:
Perched, and sat, and nothing
more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad
fancy into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the
countenance it wore, —
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wander-
ing from the Nightly shore:
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the
Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never-
more."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to
hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little
relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living
human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird
above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust
above his chamber door,
With such name as "Never-
more."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid
bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one
word he did outpour,
Nothing further then he uttered, not a
feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, —
"Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my
Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Never-
more."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply
so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its
only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom
unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his
songs one burden bore:
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy
burden bore
Of 'Never — nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy
into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in
front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook
myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this
ominous bird of yore,
LYRIC POETRY
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt,
and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Never-
more."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no
syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned
into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my
head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the
lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the
lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore !
Then, methought, the air grew denser,
perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled
on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent
thee — by these angels he hath sent
thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy
memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and
forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never-
more."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet
still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether temp-
est tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert
land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me
truly, I implore:
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell
me — tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never-
more."
" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil — prophet
still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us, by
that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within
the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the
angels name Lenore:
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom
the angels name Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never-
more."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird
or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:
"Get thee back into the tempest and the
Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that
lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the
bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and
take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never-
more."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sit-
ting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my
chamber door;
And his eyes have ah1 the seeming of a
demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming
throws his shadow on the floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that
Hes floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!
(1845)
THE HAUNTED PALACE
IN THE greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fab: and stately palace —
Radiant palace — reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion,
It stood there;
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
ii
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This — all this — was in the olden
Tune long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
194
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
m
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting,
Porphyrogene,
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
rv
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing,
flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
VI
And travellers now within that valley
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh — but smile no more. (1839)
ALFRED TENNYSON (1809-1892)
THE LOTOS-EATERS
"COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward
the land,
"This mounting wave will roll us shore-
ward soon."
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did
swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary
dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the
moon;
And, like a downward smoke, the slender
stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall
did seem.
A land of streams! some, like a downward
smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did
go;
And some thro' wavering lights and shad-
ows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land; far off, three moun-
tain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush'd; and, dew'd with
showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the
woven copse.
The charmed sunset linger'd low adown
In the red West; thro' mountain clefts
the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd with palm, and many a winding
vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land where all things always seem'd
the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters
came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted
stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they
gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them
And taste, to him the gushing of the
wave
LYRIC POETRY
Far far away did seem to mourn and
rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the
grave;
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart
did make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but ever-
more
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the
oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren
foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no
more;"
\nd all at once they sang, "Our island
home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer
roam."
CHORIC SONG
There is sweet music here that softer
falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between
walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from
the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers
weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy
hangs in sleep.
n
Why are we weigh'd upon with heavi-
ness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weari-
ness?
All things have rest: why should we toil
alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown;
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy
balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There is no joy but calm!" —
Why should we only toil, the roof and
crown of things?
m
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no
care,
Sun-steep'd at noon, and hi the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no
toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
IV
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labor be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the
grave
In silence — ripen, fall, and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or
dreamful ease.
196
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
How sweet it were, hearing the downward
stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half -dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber
light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on
the height;
To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melan-
choly;
To muse and brood and live again in
memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an
urn of brass!
VI
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears; but all hath suffer 'd
change;
For surely now our household hearths are
cold,
Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange,
And we should come like ghosts to trouble
joy.
Or else the island princes over-bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel
sings
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten
things.
Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile;
'T is hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labor unto aged breath,
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the
pilot-stars.
vn
But, propped on beds of amaranth and
moly,
How sweet — while warm airs lull us,
blowing lowly —
With half-dropped eyelids still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing
slowly
His waters from the purple hill —
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined
vine —
To watch the emerald-color'd water fall-
ing
Thro' many a woven acanthus-wreath
divine!
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling
brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out
beneath the pine.
vra
The Lotos blooms below the barren
peak,
The Lotos blows by every winding creek;
All day the wind breathes low with mel-
lower tone;
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the
yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of
motion we,
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard,
when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted
his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an
equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie
reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless
of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the
bolts are hurl'd
Far below them in the valleys, and the
clouds are lightly curl'd
Round their golden houses, girdled with
the gleaming world-
LYRIC POETRY
197
Where they smile in secret, looking over
wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earth-
quake, roaring deeps and fiery
sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and
sinking snips, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centered
in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an an-
cient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words
are strong;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that
cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with
enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and
wine and oil;
Till they perish and they suffer — some,
't is whisper'd — down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian
valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of
asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet
than toil, the shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind
and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not
wander more.
(1833)
ULYSSES
IT LITTLE profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren
crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and
dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and
know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have en-
joy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with
those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and
when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dun sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known, — cities of
men
And manners, climates, councils, govern-
ments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them
all —
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro"
Gleams that untravell'd world whose
margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled
on lif e
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something
more,
A bringer of new things: and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard
myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human
thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle, —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make
mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I
mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her
sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My
mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and
thought with me, —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
198
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I
are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the
end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be
done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with
Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the
rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs;
the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come,
my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose
holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us
down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and
tho'
We are not now that strength which in
old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we
are, we are, —
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by tune and fate, but strong
in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to
yield.
(1842)
LYRICS FROM "THE PRINCESS"
TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they
mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine de-
spair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on
a sail,
That brings our friends up from the
underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the
verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no
more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer
dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering
square;
So sad, so strange, the days that axe no
more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy
feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all re-
gret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no
more! (1847-1850)
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes
flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply-
ing,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes
flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dy-
ing, dying.
(1850)
LYRIC POETRY
199
LYRICS FROM "IN MEMORIAM"
vn
DARK house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp'd no more —
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
IX
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur's loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.
So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favorable speed
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead
Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.
/Ill night no ruder ah* perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, thro' early light
3hall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widow'd race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me.
I hear the noise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night;
I see the cabin-window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.
Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,
And travell'd men from foreign lands:
And letters unto trembling hands;
And thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.
So bring him; we have idle dreams;
This look of quiet natters thus
Our home-bred fancies. 0, to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems
To rest beneath the clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God;
Than if with thee the roaring wells
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine,
And hands so often clasp'd in mine,
Should toss with tangle and with shells.
XI
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief.
And only thro' the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground;
Calm and deep peace on this high wold.
And on these dews that drench the
furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold;
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening
towers,
To mingle with the bounding mam;
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall,
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep
200
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
LIV
O, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last — far off — at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.
So runs my dream; but what am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language but a cry.
LV
The wish, that of the living whole
No life may fail beyond the grave,
Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul?
Are God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams?
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single hie,
That I, considering everywhere
Her secret meaning in her deeds,
And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world's altar-stairs
That slope thro' darkness up to God,
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.
LVl
" So careful of the type? " but no.
From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She cries, "A thousand types are gone;
I care for nothing, all shall go.
"Thou makest thine appeal to me:
I bring to life, I bring to death;
The spirit does but mean the breath:
I know no more." And he, shall he,
Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair,
Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,
Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation's final law —
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed—
Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills,
Who battled for the True, the Just,
Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal'd within the iron hills?
No more? A monster then, a dream,
A discord. Dragons of the prime,
That tare each other in their slime,
Were mellow music match'd with him.
O life as futile, then, as frail!
O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil, behind the veil.
(1850)
ODE ON THE DEATH or THE DUKE OF
WELLINGTON
BURY the Great Duke
With an empire's lamentation;
Let us bury the Great Duke
To the noise of the mourning of a
mighty nation;
Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.
LYRIC POETRY
2OI
Where shall we lay the man whom we
deplore?
Here, in streaming London's central roar.
Let the sound of those he wrought for,
And the feet of those he fought for,
Echo round his bones for evermore.
ni
Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,
Let the long, long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.
IV
Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the past,
No more in soldier fashion will he greet
With lifted hand the gazer hi the street.
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute!
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,
Whole in himself, a common good.
Mourn for the man of amplest influence,
Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his tune,
Rich in saving common-sense,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.
O good gray head which all men knew,
O voice from which their omens all men
drew,
O iron nerve to true occasion true,
O fallen at length that tower of strength
Which stood four-square to all the winds
that blew!
Such was he whom we deplore.
The long self-sacrifice of hie is o'er.
The great World-victor's victor will be
seen no more.
All is over and done,
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.
Let the bell be toll'd.
Render thanks to the Giver,
And render him to the mould.
Under the cross of gold
That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest for ever
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll'd,
And a reverent people behold
The towering car, the sable steeds.
Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds,
Dark in its funeral fold.
Let the bell be toll'd,
And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd;
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem
roll'd
Thro' the dome of the golden cross;
And the volleying cannon thunder his
loss;
He knew their voices of old.
For many a time in many a clime
His captain's-ear has heard them boom
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom.
When he with those deep voices wrought,
Guarding realms and kings from shame,
With those deep voices our dead captain
taught
The tyrant, and asserts his claim
In that dread sound to the great name
Which he has worn so pure of blame,
In praise and in dispraise the same,
A man of well-attemper'd frame.
O civic muse, to such a name,
To such a name for ages long,
To such a name,
Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-echoing avenues of song!
VI
"Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd
guest,
With banner and with music, with soldier
and with priest,
With a nation weeping, and breaking on
my rest?"-
Mighty Seaman, this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea.
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous
man,
The greatest sailor since our world began.
Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
To thee the greatest soldier comes;
For this is he
202
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Was great by land as thou by sea.
His foes were thine; he kept us free;
O, give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee;
For this is England's greatest son,
He that gain'd a hundred fights,
Nor ever lost an English gun;
This is he that far away
Against the myriads of Assaye
Clash'd with his fiery few and won»
And underneath another sun,
Warring on a later day,
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works, the vast designs
Of his labor'd rampart-lines,
Where he greatly stood at bay,
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew,
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms,
Back to France with countless blows,
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamor of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes,
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing
wings,
And barking for the thrones of kings;
Till one that sought but Duty's iron
crown
On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler
down;
A day of onsets of despair!
Dash'd on every rocky square,
Their surging charges foam'd themselves
away;
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew;
Thro' the long-tormented air
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray,
And down we swept and charged and
overthrew.
So great a soldier taught us there
What long-enduring hearts could do
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo!
Mighty Seaman, tender and true,
And pure as he from taint of craven guile,
0 savior of the silver-coasted isle,
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,
If aught of things that here befall
Touch a spirit among things divine,
If love of country move thee there at all.
Be glad, because his bones are laid by
thine!
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice
In full acclaim,
A people's voice,
The proof and echo of all human fame,
A people's voice, when they rejoice
At civic revel and pomp and game,
Attest their great commander's claim
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,
Eternal honor to his name.
VII
A people's voice! we are a people yet.
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams for-
get,
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless
Powers,
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly
set
His Briton in blown seas and storming
showers,
We have a voice with which to pay the
debt
Of boundless love and reverence and re-
gret
To those great men who fought, and kept
it ours.
And kept it ours, 0 God, from brute
control!
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye,
the soul
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole,
And save the one true seed of freedom
sown
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,
That sober freedom out of which there
springs
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings!
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust,
And drill the raw world for the march of
mind,
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns
be just.
But wink no more in slothful overtrust.
Remember him who led your hosts;
LYRIC POETRY
203
He bade you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward
wall;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
For ever; and whatever tempests lour
For ever silent; even if they broke
In thunder, silent; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man who
spoke;
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power;
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow
Thro' either babbling world of high and
low;
Whose life was work, whose language rife
With rugged maxims hewn from life;
Who never spoke against a foe;
Whose eighty winters freeze with one
rebuke
All great self-seekers trampling on the
right.
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred
named ;
Truth-lover was our English Duke!
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.
vm
Lo ! the leader in these glorious wars
Now to glorious burial slowly borne,
Follow'd by the brave of other lands,
He, on whom from both her open hands
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars,
And affluent Fortune emptied all her
horn.
Yea, let aU good things await
Him who cares not to be great
But as he saves or serves the state.
Not once or twice in our rough island-
story
The path of duty was the way to glory.
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which out-redden
All voluptuous garden-roses.
Not once or twice in our fair island-story
The path of duty was the way to glory.
He, that ever following her commands,
On with toil of heart and knees and hands,
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has
won
His path upward, and prevail'd,
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty
scaled
Are close upon the shining table-lands
To which our God Himself is moon and
sun.
Such was he: his work is done.
But while the races of mankind endure
Let his great example stand
Colossal, seen of every land,
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman
pure;
Pill in all lands and thro' all human story
The path of duty be the way to glory.
And let the land whose hearths he saved
from shame
For many and many an age proclaim
At civic revel and pomp and game,
And when the long-illumined cities flame,
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame,
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,
Eternal honor to his name.
DC
Peace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmoulded tongue
Far on in summers that we shall not see.
Peace, it is a day of pain
For one about whose patriarchal knee
Late the little children clung.
0 peace, it is a day of pain
For one upon whose hand and heart and
brain
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung.
Ours the pain, be his the gain!
More than is of man's degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.
Whom we see not we revere;
We revere, and we refrain
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility
As befits a solemn fane:
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,
Until we doubt not that for one so true
204
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will,
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads
roll
Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul?
On God and Godlike men we build our
trust.
Hush, the Dead March wails in the
people's ears;
The dark crowd moves, and there are
sobs and tears;
The black earth yawns; the mortal dis-
appears;
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
He is gone who seem'd so great. —
Gone, but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave
him.
Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him,
God accept him, Christ receive him!
(1852)
LYRIC FROM "MAUD'
PART I
A VOICE by the cedar tree
In the meadow under the Hall!
She is singing an air that is known to me,
A passionate ballad gallant and gay,
A martial song like a trumpet's call!
Singing alone in the morning of life,
In the happy morning of life and of May,
Singing of men that in battle array,
Ready hi heart and ready in hand,
March with banner and bugle and fife
To the death, for their native land.
Maud with her exquisite face,
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny
sky,
And feet like sunny gems on an English
green,
Maud in the light of her youth and her
grace,
Singing of Death, and of Honor that can-
not die,
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid
and mean,
And myself so languid and base.
Silence, beautiful voice!
Be still, for you only trouble the mind
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice,
A glory I shall not find.
Still! I will hear you no more,
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a
choice
But to move to the meadow and fall before
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore,
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind,
Not her, not her, but a voice.
(1855)
CROSSING THE BAR*
SUNSET and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the
boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Tune and
Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
(1889)
*"A few days before his death he said to me: 'Mind you
put Crossing the Bar at the end of all editions of my poems.' "
(Life of Tennyson, II., 367.)
LYRIC POETRY
205
ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889)
MY LAST DUCHESS
FEKRARA
THAT 's my last Duchess painted on the
wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's
hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I
said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured coun-
tenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts
by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they
durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the
first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was
not
Her husband's presence only, called that
spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle
laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or " Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such
stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause
enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made
glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went every-
where.
Sir , ' t was all one ! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke hi the orchard for her, the white
mule
She rode with round the terrace — all and
each
Would draw from her alike the approving
speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, —
good! but thanked
Somehow — I know not how — as if she
ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to
blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech — (which I have not) — to make
your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just
this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made
excuse,
— E'en then would be some stooping; and
I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no
doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed
without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave
commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There
she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise?
We'll meet
The company below then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known muni-
ficence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I
avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune,
though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze
for me!
(1842)
MEETING AT NIGHT
THE gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half -moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
ao6
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys
and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each !
(1845)
PARTING AT MORNING
ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's
rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
(1845)
HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA
NOBLY, nobly, Cape Saint Vincent to the
Northwest died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking
into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face
Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned
Gibraltar, grand and gray;
"Here and here did England help me: how
can I help England?" — say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to
God to praise and pray,
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent
over Africa.
(1845)
THE BISHOP ORDERS His TOMB AT
SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH
ROME, 15 —
VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping
back?
Nephews — sons mine . . . ah God, I
know not? Well —
She, men would have to be your mother
once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fan- she was!
What 's done is done, and she is dead
beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves.
And thence ye may perceive the world 's
a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night,
I ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace
seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for
peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I
fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche,
ye know:
— Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my
care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the
corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse
the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but
thence
One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,
And somewhat of the choir, those silent
seats,
And up into the very dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam 's sure to lurk.
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two
and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm
stands:
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
As fresh poured red wine of a mighty
pulse.
— Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-
stone,
Put me where I may look at him! True
peach,
Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!
Draw close: that conflagration of my
church
— What then? So much was saved if
aught were missed!
My sons, ye would not be my death?
Go dig
The white-grape vineyard where the oil-
press stood,
Drop water gently till the surface sink,
And if ye find ... Ah God, I knovt
not, I! ...
LYRIC POETRY
207
Bedded In store of rotten fig-leaves soft,
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's
breast . . .
Sons, all have I bequeathed you. villas,
all,
The brave Frascati villa with its bath,
So, let the blue lump poise between my
knees,
Like God the Father's globe on both his
hands
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and
burst!
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons?
Black—
'T was ever antique-black I meant! How
else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come
beneath?
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and
perchance
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last gar-
ment off,
And Moses with the tables . . . but I
know
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper
thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye
hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldly tra-
vertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles
at!
Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper,
then!
'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I
grieve
My bath must needs be left behind,
alas!
One block, pure green as a pistachio nut,
There's plenty jasper somewhere in the
world —
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manu-
scripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly
limbs?
— That 's if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's
every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second
line —
Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his
need!
And then how I shall lie through centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupefying incense-
smoke!
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
And stretch my feet forth straight as
stone can point,
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth,
drop
Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-
work:
And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange
thoughts
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
About the life before I lived this life,
And this life too, popes, cardinals and
priests,
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,
Your tall pale mother with her talking
eyes,
And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,
And marble's language, Latin pure, dis-
creet,
— Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?
No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.
All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope
My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,
They glitter like your mother's for my
soul,
Or ye would heighten my impoverished
frieze,
Piece out its starved design, and fill my
vase
With grapes, and add a visor and a Term,
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus
. down,
, To comfort me on my entablature
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave
me, there!
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it!
Stone —
Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares
which sweat
As if the corpse they keep were oozing
through —
And no more lapis to delight the world!
Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,
But in a row: and, going, turn your backs
— Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
And leave me in my church, the church
for peace,
That I may watch at leisure if he leers —
Old Gandolf — at me, from his onion-
stone,
As still he envied me, so fair she was!*
ANDREA DEL SARTO
CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER"
Bur do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring your
heart?
Ill work then for your friend's friend,
never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Fix his own time, accept too, his own price,
And shut the money into this small hand
When next it takes mine. Will it? ten-
derly?
Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow,
Love!
*"I know no other piece of modem English, prose or
poetry, in which there is so much told, as in these lines, of the
Renaissance spirit, — its worldliness, inconsistency, pride,
hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of
good Latin. It is nearly all that I said of the central Renais-
sance in thirty pages of the Stones of Vtniee, pat into as many
lines. Browning's being also the antecedent work. The worst
of it is that this kind of concentrated writing needs so much
solution before the reader can fairly get the good of it, that
people's patience fails them, and they give the thing up as in-
•ohjble; though, truly, it ought to be to the current of common
'.bought like Saladin's talisman, dipped in clear water, not
toluble altogether, but making the element medicinal."
UMfc)
I often am much wearier than you think,
This evening more than usual, and it
seems
As if — forgive now — should you let me
sit
Here by the window with your hand in
mine
And look a half -hour forth on Fiesole,
Both of one mind, as married people use,
Quietly, quietly the evening through,
I might get up to-morrow to my work
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for
this!
Your soft hand is a woman of itself,
And mine the man's bared breast she curls
inside.
Don't count the time lost, neither; you
must serve
For each of the five pictures we require:
It saves a model. So! keep looking so —
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds !
— How could you ever prick those perfect
ears,
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet —
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,
Which everybody looks on and calls his.
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,
While she looks — no one's: very dear, no
less.
You smile? why, there's my picture ready
made,
There 's what we painters call our harmony !
A common grayness silvers everything, —
All in a twilight, you and I alike
— You, at the point of your first pride in
me
(That 's gone you know), — but I, at every
point;
My youth, my hope, my art, being all
toned down
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.
There 's the bell clinking from the chapel-
top;
That length of convent-wall across the way
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;
The last monk leaves the garden; days de-
crease,
And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
LYRIC POETRY
209
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's
hand.
How strange now looks the life he makes
us lead;
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!
I feel he kid the fetter: let it lie!
This chamber for example — turn your
head —
All that's behind us! You don't under-
stand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people
speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the door
—It is the thing, Love! so such thing
should be —
Behold Madonna! — I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep —
Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly,
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge,
Who listened to the Legate's talk last
week,
And just as much they used to say in
France.
At any rate, 't is easy, all of it!
No sketches first, no studies, that 's long
past:
I do what many dream of all their lives,
—Dream? strive to do, and agonize to
do,
And fail in doing. I could count twenty
such
On twice your fingers, and not leave this
town,
Who strive — you don't know how the
others strive
To paint a little thing like that you smeared
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, —
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone
says,
(I know his name, no matter) — so much
less!
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.
There burns a truer light of God in them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and
stopped-up brain,
Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to
prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's
hand of mine.
Their works drop groundward, but them-
selves, I know,
Reach many a time a heaven that 's shut
to me,
Enter and take their place there sure
enough,
Though they come back and cannot tell
the world.
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit
here.
The sudden blood of these men! at a
word —
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it
boils too.
I, painting from myself, and to myself,
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's
blame
Or their praise either. Somebody re-
marks
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced,
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of
that?
Speak as they please, what does the moun-
tain care?
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his
grasp,
Or what 's a heaven for? All is silver-gray
Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!
I know both what I want and what might
gain,
And yet how profitless to know, to sigh
"Had I been two, another and myself,
Our head wouldhave o'erlookedthe world !"
No doubt.
Yonder 's a work now, of that famous
youth
The Urbinate who died five years ago.
('T is copied, George Vasari sent it me.)
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to
see,
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish
him,
Above and through his art — for it gives
way;
That arm is wrongly put — and there
again —
A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,
Its body, so to speak: its soul is right,
He means right— that, a child may under-
stand.
210
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Still, what an arm! and I could alter it:
But all the play, the insight and the
stretch —
Out of me, out of me ! And wherefore out?
Had you enjoined them on me, given me
soul,
We might have risen to Rafael, I and you !
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I
think-
More than I merit, yes, by many times.
But had you — oh, with the same perfect
brow,
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect
mouth,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a
bird
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the
snare —
Had you, with these the same, but brought
a mind!
Some women do so. Had the mouth there
urged
" God and the glory! never care for gain.
The present by the future, what is that?
Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo!
Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!"
I might have done it for you. So it seems:
Perhaps not. All is as God overrules.
Beside, incentives come from the soul's
self;
The rest avail not. Why do I need you?
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?
In this world, who can do a thing, will not ;
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive:
Yet the will 's somewhat — somewhat, too,
the power —
And thus we half-men struggle. At the
end,
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.
'T is safer for me, if the award be strict,
That I am something underrated here,
Poor this long while, despised, to speak the
truth.
I dared not, do you know, leave home all
day,
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.
The best is when they pass and look aside;
But they speak sometimes; I must bear it
all.
Well may they speak! That Francis, that
first tune,
And that long festal year at Fontainebleau!
I surely then could sometimes leave the
ground,
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear,
In that humane great monarch's golden
look, —
One finger in his beard or twisted curl
Over his mouth's good mark that made the
smile,
One arm about my shoulder, round my
neck,
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,
I painting proudly with his breath on me,
All his court round him, seeing with his
eyes,
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of
souls
Profuse, my hand kept plying by those
hearts, —
And, best of all, this, this, this face be-
yond,
This in the background, waiting on my
work,
To crown the issue with a last reward!
A good time, was it not, my kingly days?
And had you not grown restless . . .
but I know —
'T is done and past: 't was right, my in-
stinct said:
Too live the life grew, golden and not
gray,
And I 'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should
tempt
Out of his grange whose four walls make
his world.
How could it end in any other way?
You called me, and I came home to your
heart.
The triumph was — to reach and stay there;
since
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?
Let my hands frame your face in your
hair's gold,
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!
"Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;
The Roman's is the better when you pray,
But still the other's Virgin was his wife"-
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge
Both pictures in your presence; clearer
grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think.
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
LYRIC POETRY
211
To Rafael ... I have known it all
these years . . .
(When the young man was flaming out his
thoughts
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,
Too lifted up in heart because of it)
" Friend, there 's a certain sorry little scrub
Goes up and down our Florence, none cares
how,
Who, were he set to plan and execute
As you are, pricked on by your popes and
kings,
Would bring the sweat into that brow of
yours
yet, only you to
To Rafael's! — And indeed the arm is
wrong.
I hardly dare . .
see,
Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line
should go !
Ay, but the soul! he 's Rafael! rub it out!
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?
Do you forget already words like those?),
If really there was such a chance, so lost, —
Is, whether you 're — not grateful — but
more pleased.
Well, let me think so. And you smile in-
deed!
This hour has been an hour! Another
smile?
If you would sit tnus by me every night
I should work better, do you comprehend?
I mean that I should earn more, give you
more.
See, it is settled dusk now; there 's a star;
Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show the
wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call them
by.
Come from the window, Love, — come in,
at last,
Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with. God is just.
King Francis may forgive me; oft at
nights,
When I look up from painting, eyes tired
out,
The walls become illumined, brick from
brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright
gold,
That gold of his I did cement them with!
Let us but love each other. Must you go?
That Cousin here again? he waits outside?
Must see you — you, and not with me?
Those loans?
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for
that?
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to
spend?
While hand and eye and something of a
heart
Are left me, work 's my ware, and what 's
it worth?
I '11 pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The gray remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
How I could paint, were I but back in
France,
One picture, just one more — the Virgin's
face,
Not yours this time! I want you at my
side
To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo —
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.
I take the subjects for his corridor,
Finish the portrait out of hand — there,
there,
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs; the whole should prove
enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Be-
side,
What 's better and what 's all I care about,
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what
does he,
The Cousin! what does he to please you
more?
I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.
I regret little, I would change still less.
Since there my past life lies, why alter
it?
The very wrong to Francis! — it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and complied,
And built this house and sinned, and all is
said.
My father and my mother died of want.
Well, had I riches of my own? you see
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his
lot.
212
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
They were born poor, lived poor, and poor
they died:
And I have labored somewhat hi my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good
son
Paint my two hundred pictures — let him
try!
No doubt, there's something strikes a
balance. Yes,
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-
night.
This must suffice me here. What would
one have?
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more
chance —
Four great walls in the new Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me
To cover — the three first without a wife,
While I have mine! So — still they over-
come
Because there 's still Lucrezia, — as I choose.
Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.
(i8S5)
RABBI BEN EZRA
GROW old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was
made:
Our times are in his hand
Who saith, "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all,
nor be afraid!"
Not that, amassing flowers,
Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours,
Which lily leave and then as best recall? "
Not that, admiring stars,
It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars;
Mine be some figured flame which blends,
transcends them all!"
Not for such hopes and fears
Annulling youth's brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without, •
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a
spark.
Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
On joy, to solely seek and find a feast:
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men:
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt
the maw-crammed beast?
Rejoice we are allied
To that which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!
A spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of his tribes that take,
I must believe.
Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but
go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never
grudge the throe!
For thence, — a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks, —
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not
sink i' the scale.
What is he but a brute
Whose flesh has soul to suit,
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs
want play?
To man, propose this test —
Thy body at its best,
How far can that project thy soul on its
lone way?
Yet gifts should prove their use:
I own the Past profuse
Of power each side, perfection every turn:
Eyes, ears took in their dole,
Brain treasured up the whole;
Should not the heart beat once
good to live and learn?"
Not once beat "Praise be thine!
I see the whole design,
LYRIC POETRY
213
I, who saw power, see now Love perfect
too:
Perfect I call thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what
thou shalt do!"
For pleasant is this flesh;
Our soul, in its rose-mesh
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for
rest:
Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold
Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we
did best!
Let us not always say,
" Spite of this flesh to-day
I strove, made head, gained ground upon
the whole!"
As the bird wings and sings,
Let us cry, "All good things
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now,
than flesh helps soul!"
Therefore I summon age
To grant youth's heritage,
Life's struggle having so far reached its
term:
Thence shall I pass, approved
A man, for aye removed
From the developed brute; a God though
in the germ.
And I shall thereupon
Take rest, ere I be gone
Once more on my adventure brave and
new:
Fearless and unperplexed,
When I wage battle next,
What weapons to select, what armor to
indue.
Youth ended, I shall try
My gain or loss thereby;
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:
And I shall weigh the same,
Give life its praise or blame:
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know,
being c^d
For note, when evening shuts,
A certain moment cuts
The deed off, calls the glory from the
gray:
A whisper from the west
Shoots — "Add this to the rest,
Take it and try its worth: here dies an-
other day."
So, still within this life,
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at
last,
"This rage was right i' the main,
That acquiescence vain:
The Future I may face now I have proved
the Past."
For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:
Here, work enough to watch
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the
tool's true play.
As it was better, youth
Should strive, through acts uncouth,
Toward making, than repose on aught
found made:
So, better, age, exempt
From strife, should know, than tempt
Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death
nor be afraid!
Enough now, if the Right
And Good and Infinite
Be named here, as thou callest thy hand
thine own,
With knowledge absolute,
Subject to no dispute
From fools that crowded youth, nor let
thee feel alone.
Be there, for once and all,
Severed great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the Past!
Was I, the world arraigned,
Were they, my soul disdained,
Right? Let age speak the truth and give
us peace at last !
214
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Now, who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
Ten, who in ears and eyes
Match me; we all surmise,
They this thing, and I that: whom shall
my scul believe?
Not on the vulgar mass
Called "work," must sentence pass,
Things done, that took the eye and had
the price;
O'er which, from level stand,
The low world laid its hand,
Found straightway to its mind, could
value hi a trice:
But all, the world's coarse thumb
And finger failed to plumb,
So passed in making up the main ac-
count;
All instincts immature,
All purposes unsure,
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled
the man's amount:
Thoughts hardly to be packed
Into a narrow act,
Fancies that broke through language and
escaped;
All I could never be,
All, men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel
the pitcher shaped.
Ay, note that Potter's wheel,
That metaphor! and feel
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our
clay —
Thou, to whom fools propound,
When the wine makes its round,
"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past
gone, seize to-day!"
Fool! All that is, at all,
Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God
stand sure:
What entered into thee,
That was, is, and shall be:
Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter
and clay endure.
He fixed thee 'mid this dance
Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain
arrest:
Machinery just meant
To give thy soul its bent,
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently
impressed.
What though the earlier grooves
Which ran the laughing loves
Around thy base, no longer pause and
press?
What though, about thy rim,
Skull-things in order grim
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner
stress?
Look not thou down but up!
To uses of a cup,
The festal board, lamp's flash and trum-
pet's peal,
The new wine's foaming flow,
The master's lips aglow!
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what
needst thou with earth's wheel?
But I need, now as then,
Thee, God, who mouldest men;
And since, not even while the whirl was
worst,
Did I — to the wheel of life
With shapes and colors rife,
Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake
thy thirst:
So, take and use thy work:
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings
past the aim!
My times be in thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death
complete the same!
(1864)
PROSPICE
FEAR death? — to feel the fog in my
throat,
The mist in my face,
LYRIC POETRY
215
When the snows begin, and the blasts
denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the
storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a
visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit
attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon
be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my
eyes, and forbore
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare
like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad
life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to
the brave,
The black minute 's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices
that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace
out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
0 thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp
thee again,
And with God be the rest!
(1864)
ASOLANDO
EPILOGUE
Ax THE midnight in the silence of the sleep-
time,
When you set your fancies free,
Will they pass to where — by death, fools
think, imprisoned —
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom
you loved so, —
— Pity me?
Oh, to love so, be so loved, yet so mis-
taken !
What had I on earth to do
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the
unmanly?
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I
drivel
— Being — who?
One who never turned his back but
marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were
worsted, wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight
better,
Sleep to wake.
No, at noonday in the bustle of man's
work-time
Greet the unseen with a cheer!
Bid him forward, breast and back as
either should be,
"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — fight
on, fare ever
There as here!"
(1890)
WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892)
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip
is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the
prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the
people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the
vessel grim and daring;
But 0 heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain hes;
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up aiid hear
the bells;
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you
the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths —
for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their
eager faces turning:
2l6
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You 've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are
pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no
pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its
voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in
with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead. (1865)
MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888)
DOVER BEACH
THE sea is calm to-night,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; — on the French coast
the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England
stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil
bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-
air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd
land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back,
and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the ^Egaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round
earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furFd .
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges
drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which
seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor
light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for
pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle
and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
(1867)
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
(1837-1909)
CHORUSES FROM "ATALANTA IN CALYDON"
CHORUS
WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's
traces,
The mother of months in meadow or
plain
Fills the shadows and windy places
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
And the brown bright nightingale amorous
Is half assuaged for Itylus,
For the Thracian ships and the foreign
faces,
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
Come with bows bent and with emptying
of quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
With a noise of winds and many rivers,
With a clamor of waters, and with
might;
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet,
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet;
For the faint east quickens, the wan west
shivers,
Round the feet of the day and the feet of
the night.
LYRIC POETRY
217
fyhere shall we find her, how shall we sing
to her,
Fold our hands round her knees, and
cling?
0 that man's heart were as fire and could
spring to her,
Fire, or the strength of the streams that
spring!
For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen ding
to her,
And the southwest-wind, and the west-
wind sing.
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The tight that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot,
The faint fresh flame of the young year
flushes
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Maenad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes;
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare
Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its
leaves,
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that
scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that
flies.
CHORUS
Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;
Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death.
And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years
And froth and drift of the sea;
And dust of the laboring earth;
And bodies of things to be
In the houses of death and of birth;
And wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashioned with loathing and love,
With life before and after
And death beneath and above,
For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a
span
With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.
From the winds of the north and the south
They gathered as unto strife;
They breathed upon his mouth,
They filled his body with life;
Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein,
A tune for labor and thought,
A time to serve and to sin;
They gave him light in his ways,
And love, and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,
And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;
In his heart is a blind desire,
In his eyes foreknowledge of death;
2l8
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;
His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.
CHORUS
We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair;
thou art goodly, O Love;
Thy wings make light in the air as the
wings of a dove.
Thy feet are as winds that divide the
stream of the sea;
Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the
garment of thee.
Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a
flame of fire;
Before thee the laughter, behind thee the
tears of desire;
And twain go forth beside thee, a man with
a maid;
Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom de-
light makes afraid;
As the breath in the buds that stir is her
bridal breath:
But Fate is the name of her; and his name
is Death. (1865)
IN THE WATER
THE sea is awake, and the sound of the
song of the joy of her waking is
rolled
From afar to the star that recedes, from
anear to the wastes of the wild wide
shore.
Her call is a trumpet compelling us home-
ward: if dawn in her east be acold,
From the sea shall we crave not her grace
to rekindle the life that it kindled
before,
Her breath to requicken, her bosom to
rock us, her kisses to bless as of
yore?
For the wind, with his wings half open, at
pause in the sky, neither fettered
nor free,
Leans waveward and flutters the ripple to
laughter: and fain would the twain
of us be
Where lightly the waves yearn forward
from under the curve of the deep
dawn's dome.
And, full of the morning and fired with
the pride of the glory thereof and
the glee,
Strike out from the shore as the heart in
us bids and beseeches, athirst for
the foam.
Life holds not an hour that is better to
live in: the past is a tale that is told,
The future a sun-flecked shadow, alive and
asleep, with a blessing in store.
As we give us again to the waters, the rap-
ture of limbs that the waters enfold
Is less than the rapture of spirit whereby,
though the burden it quits were
sore,
Our souls and the bodies they wield at
their will are absorbed in the life
they adore —
In the life that endures no burden, and
bows not the forehead, and bends
not the knee —
In the life everlasting of earth and of
heaven, in the laws that atone and
agree,
In the measureless music of things, in the
fervor of forces that rest or that
roam,
That cross and return and reissue, as I
after you and as you after me
Strike out from the shore as the heart in
us bids and beseeches, athirst for
the foam.
For, albeit he were less than the least of
them, haply the heart of a man may
be bold
To rejoice in the word of the sea as a
mother's that saith to the son she
bore,
Child, was not the life in thee mine, and
my spirit the breath in thy lips
from of old?
Have I let not thy weakness exult in my
strength, and thy foolishness learn
of my lore ?
Have I helped not or healed not thine
anguish, or made not the might
of thy gladness more?
And surely his heart should answer, The
light of the love of my life is La
thee.
LYRIC POETRY
219
She is fairer than earth, and the sun is
not fairer, the wind is not blither
than she:
From my youth hath she shown me the
joy of her bays that I crossed, of
her cliffs that I clomb,
Till now that the twain of us here, in de-
sire of the dawn and in thrust of
the sea,
Strike out from the shore as the heart in
us bids and beseeches, athirst for
the foam.
Friend, earth is a harbor of refuge for
winter, a covert whereunder to flee
When day is the vassal of night, and the
strength of the host of her mightier
than he;
But here is the presence adored of me,
here my desire is at rest and at
home.
There are cliffs to be climbed upon land,
there are ways to be trodden and
ridden: but we
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us
bids and beseeches, athirst for the
foam.
WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
(1849-1903)
INVICTUS
OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced or cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the
scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
RUDYARD KIPLING (1865- )
RECESSIONAL
GOD of our fathers, known of old —
Lord of our far-flung battle line —
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies —
The Captains and the Kings depart —
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away —
On dune and headland sinks the fire —
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in
awe —
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard —
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard, —
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! AMEN.
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOHN
McCRAE (1872-1918)
IN FLANDERS FIELDS*
IN FLANDERS fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
*From "In Flanders Fields and Other Poems" by Lieu-
tenant-Colonel John McCrae. Courtesy of G. P. Putnam's
Sons, Publishers.
22O
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
RUPERT BROOKE (1887-1915)
THE SOLDIER*
IF I should die, think only this of me;
That there 's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped; made
aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways
to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English
air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of
home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by
England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as
her day;
•From "The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke." Pub-
lished and copyright, 1915, by the John Lane Company, New
York.
And laughter, learnt of friends, and
gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English
heaven.
ALAN SEEGER (1888-1916)
I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH!
I HAVE a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling
shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air —
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and
fair.
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my
breath —
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.
God knows 't were better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .
But I 've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.
t Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
HERODOTUS (49o?-426? B. C.)
Herodotus, the Father of History, has compiled a fascinating story of the invasion of Greece by the
Persians and their expulsion by the Greek states. Overweening pride challenges the envy of the
Gods and is smitten with the divine wrath. His greatness lies in an extraordinary story-telling gift
which led him to recount many tales as authentic that are now regarded as of mythological origin
The following extracts from his history telling of the heroic actions of Greece will speak for themselves!
The translation is by George Rawlinson.
BATTLE OF MARATHON
THE Persians, having thus brought
Eretria into subjection after waiting a
few days, made sail for Attica, greatly
straitening the Athenians as they ap-
proached, and thinking to deal with them
as they had dealt with the people of Ere-
tria. And, because there was no place in
all Attica so convenient for their horse as
Marathon, and it lay moreover quite close
to Eretria, therefore Hippias, the son of
Pisistratus, conducted them thither.
When intelligence of this reached the
Athenians, they likewise marched their
troops to Marathon, and there stood on
the defensive, having at their head ten
generals, of whom one was Miltiades.
Now this man's father, Cimon, the son
of Stesagoras, was banished from Athens
by Pisistratus, the son of Hippocrates.
In his banishment it was his fortune to
win the four-horse chariot-race at Olym-
pia, whereby he gained the very same
honor which had before been carried off by
Miltiades, his half-brother on the mother's
side. At the next Olympiad he won the
orize again with the same mares; upon
which he caused Pisistratus to be pro-
claimed the winner, having made an agree-
ment with him that on yielding him this
honor he should be allowed to come back
to his country. Afterwards, still with the
same mares, he won the prize a third time ;
whereupon he was put to death by the
sons of Pisistratus, whose father was no
longer living. They set men to lie in wait
for him secretly; and these men slew him
near the government-house in the night-
time. He was buried outside the city,
beyond what is called the Valley Road;
and right opposite his tomb were buried
the mares which had won the three prizes.
The same success had likewise been
achieved once previously, to wit, by the
mares of Evagoras the Lacedaemonian,
but never except by them. At the time
of Cimon's death Stesagoras, the elder of
his two sons, was in the Chersonese, where
he lived with Miltiades his uncle; the
younger, who was called Miltiades after
the founder of the Chersonesite colony,
was with his father in Athens.
It was this Miltiades who now com-
manded the Athenians, after escaping from
the Chersonese, and twice nearly losing his
life. First he was chased as far as Imbrus
by the Phoenicians, who had a great desire
to take him and carry him up to the king;
and when he had avoided this danger, and,
having reached his own country, thought
himself to be altogether in safety, he found
his enemies waiting for him, and was cited
by them before a court and impeached for
his tyranny in the Chersonese. But he
came off victorious here likewise, and was
thereupon made general of the Athenians
by the free choice of the people.
And first, before they left the city, the
generals sent off to Sparta a herald, one
Pheidippides, who was by birth an Athen-
ian, and by profession and practice a
trained runner. This man, according to
the account which he gave to the Athe-
222
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
nians on his return, when he was near
Mount Parthenium, above Tegea, fell in
with the god Pan, who called him by his
name, and bade him ask the Athenians
"wherefore they neglected him so entirely,
when he was kindly disposed towards
them, and had often helped them in times
past, and would do so again in time to
come?" The Athenians, entirely believ-
ing in the truth of this report, as soon as
their affairs were once more in good order,
set up a temple to Pan under the Acro-
polis, and, in return for the message which
I have recorded, established in his honor
yearly sacrifices and a torch-race.
On the occasion of which we speak,
when Pheidippides was sent by the Athen-
ian generals, and, according to his own
account, saw Pan on his journey, he
reached Sparta on the very next day after
quitting the city of Athens. Upon his
arrival he went before the rulers, and said
to them —
"Men of Lacedaemon, the Athenians
beseech you to hasten to their aid, and
not allow that state, which is the most
ancient in all Greece, to be enslaved by
the barbarians. Eretria, look you, is
already carried away captive; and Greece
weakened by the loss of no mean city."
Thus did Pheidippides deliver the mes-
sage committed to him. And the Spartans
wished to help the Athenians, but were
unable to give them any present succor,
as they did not like to break their estab-
lished law. It was then the ninth day
of the first decade; and they could not
march .out of Sparta on the ninth, when
the moon had not reached the full. So
they waited for the full of the moon.
The barbarians were conducted to
Marathon by Hippias, the son of Pisis-
tratus, who the night before had seen a
strange vision in his sleep. He dreamt of
lying in his mother's arms, and conjec-
tured the dream to mean that he would
be restored to Athens, recover the power
which he had lost, and afterwards live to a
good old age in his native country. Such
was the sense in which he interpreted the
vision. He now proceeded to act as
guide to the Persians; and, in the first
place, he landed the prisoners taken from
Eretria upon the island that is called
^Egileia, a tract belonging to the Styreans,
after which he brought the fleet to anchor
off Marathon, and marshalled the bands
of the barbarians as they disembarked.
As he was thus employed it chanced that
he sneezed and at the same time coughed
with more violence than was his wont.
Now, as he was a man advanced in years,
and the greater number of his teeth were
loose, it so happened that one of them was
driven out with the force of the cough,
and fell down into the sand. Hippias
took all the pains he could to find it; but
the tooth was nowhere to be seen: where-
upon he fetched a deep sigh, and said to
the bystanders —
"After all, the land is not ours; and we
shall never be able to bring it under. All
my share in it is the portion of which my
tooth has possession."
So Hippias believed that in this way his
dream was out.
The Athenians were drawn up in order
of battle in a sacred close belonging to
Hercules, when they were joined by the
Plataeans, who came in full force to their
aid. Some time before, the Plataeans had
put themselves under the rule of the
Athenians; and these last had already
undertaken many labors on their behalf.
The occasion of the surrender was the
following. The Plataeans suffered griev-
ous things at the hands of the men of
Thebes; so, as it chanced that Cleomenes,
the son of Anaxandridas, and the Lacedae-
monians were in their neighborhood, they
first of all offered to surrender themselves
to them. But the Lacedaemonians re-
fused to receive them, and said —
"We dwell too far off from you, and
ours would be but chill succor. Ye
might oftentimes be carried into slavery
before one of us heard of it. We counsel
you rather to give yourselves up to the
Athenians, who are your next neighbors,
and well able to shelter you."
This they said, not so much out of good
will towards the Plataeans as because they
wished to involve the Athenians in trouble
by engaging them in wars with the Bceo-
HISTORY
223
tians. The Plataeans, however, when the
Lacedaemonians gave them this counsel,
complied at once; and when the sacrifice
to the Twelve Gods was being offered at
Athens, they came and sat as suppliants
about the altar, and gave themselves up
to the Athenians. The Thebans no sooner
learnt what the Plataeans had done than
instantly they marched out against them,
while the Athenians sent troops to their
aid. As the two armies were about to
join battle, the Corinthians, who chanced
to be at hand, would not allow them to
engage ; both sides consented to take them
for arbitrators, whereupon they made up
the quarrel, and fixed the boundary-line
between the two states upon this condition:
to wit, that if any of the Boeotians wished
no longer to belong to Bceotia, the Thebans
should allow them to follow their own
inclinations. The Corinthians, when they
had thus decreed, forthwith departed to
their homes: the Athenians likewise set
off on their return; but the Boeotians fell
upon them during the march, and a battle
was fought wherein they were worsted by
the Athenians. Hereupon these last would
not be bound by the line which the
Corinthians had fixed, but advanced be-
yond those limits, and made the As6pus
the boundary-line between the country
of the Thebans and that of the Plataeans
and Hysians. Under such circumstances
did the Plataeans give themselves up to
Athens; and now they were come to Mara-
thon to bear the Athenians aid.
The Athenian generals were divided in
their opinions; and some advised not to
risk a battle, because they were too few
to engage such a host as that of the Medes,
while others were for fighting at once; and
among these last was Miltiades. He
therefore, seeing that opinions were thus
divided, and that the less worthy counsel
appeared likely to prevail, resolved to go
to the polemarch, and have a conference
with him. For the man on whom the lot
fell to be polemarch at Athens was en-
titled to give his vote with the ten gen-
erals, since anciently the Athenians al-
lowed him an equal right of voting with
them. The polemarch at this juncture
was Callimachus of Aphidnae; to him there-
fore Miltiades went, and said: —
"With thee it rests, Callimachus, either
to bring Athens to slavery, or, by securing
her freedom, to leave behind thee to all
future generations a memory beyond even
Harmodius and Aristogeiton. For never
since the time that the Athenians became
a people were they in so great a danger
as now. If they bow their necks beneath
the yoke of the Medes, the woes which
they will have to suffer when given into
the power of Hippias are already deter-
mined on; if, on the other hand, they fight
and overcome, Athens may rise to be the
very first city in Greece. How it comes
to pass that these things are likely to
happen, and how the determining of them
in some sort rests with thee, I will now
proceed to make clear. We generals are
ten in number, and our votes are divided;
half of us wish to engage, half to avoid a
combat. Now, if we do not fight, I look
to see a great disturbance at Athens which
will shake men's resolutions, and then I
fear they will submit themselves ; but if we
fight the battle before any unsoundness
show itself among our citizens, let the
gods but give us fair play, and we are well
able to overcome the enemy. On thee
therefore we depend in this matter, which
lies wholly in thine own power. Thou
hast only to add thy vote to my side and
thy country will be free, and not free only,
but the first state in Greece. Or, if thou
preferrest to give thy vote to them who
would decline the combat, then the re-
verse will follow."
Miltiades by these words gained Calli-
machus; and the addition of the pole-
march's vote caused the decision to be in
favor of fighting. Hereupon all those
generals who had been desirous of hazard-
ing a battle, when their turn came to com-
mand the army, gave up their right to
Miltiades. He however, though he ac-
cepted their offers, nevertheless waited,
and would not fight, until his own day of
command arrived in due course.
Then at length, when his own turn was
come, the Athenian battle was set in ar-
ray, and this was the order of it. Calli-
224
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
machus the polemarch led the right wing;
for it was at that time a rule with the
Athenians to give the right wing to the
polemarch. After this followed the tribes,
iccording as they were numbered, in an
unbroken line; while last of all came the
Plateans, forming the left wing. And
ever since that day it has been a custom
with the Athenians, in the sacrifices and
assemblies held each fifth year at Athens,
for the Athenian herald to implore the
blessing of the gods on the Plataeans con-
jointly with the Athenians. Now, as they
marshalled the host upon the field of
Marathon, in order that the Athenian
front might be of equal length with the
Median, the ranks of the center were
diminished, and it became the weakest
part of the line, while the wings were both
made strong with a depth of many ranks.
So when the battle was set in array,
and the victims showed themselves favor-
able, instantly the Athenians, so soon as
they were let go, charged the barbarians
at a run. Now the distance between the
two armies was little short of eight fur-
longs. The Persians, therefore, when they
saw the Greeks coming on at speed, made
ready to receive them, although it seemed
to them that the Athenians were bereft of
their senses, and bent upon their own
destruction; for they saw a mere handful
of men coming on at a run without either
horsemen or archers. Such was the opin-
ion of the barbarians; but the Athenians
in close array fell upon them, and fought
in a manner worthy of being recorded.
They were the first of the Greeks, so far
as I know, who introduced the custom of
charging the enemy at a run, and they
were likewise the first who dared to look
upon the Median garb, and to face men
clad in that fashion. Until this time the
very name of the Medes had been a terror
to the Greeks to hear.
The two armies fought together on the
plain of Marathon for a length of time;
and in the mid battle, where the Persians
themselves and the Sacae had their place,
the barbarians were victorious, and broke
and pursued the Greeks into the inner
country; but on the two wings the Athe-
nians and the Platseans defeated the
enemy. Having so done, they suffered the
routed barbarians to fly at their ease,
and joining the two wings in one, fell
upon those who had broken their own
center, and fought and conquered them.
These likewise fled, and now the Athenians
hung upon the runaways and cut them
down, chasing them all the way to the
shore, on reaching which they laid hold
of the ships and called aloud for fire.
It was in the struggle here that Calli-
machus the polemarch, after greatly dis-
tinguishing himself, lost his life; Stesilavis
too, the son of Thrasilaiis, one of the gen-
erals, was slain; and Cynsegirus, the son of
Euphorion, having seized on a vessel of
the enemy's by the ornament at the stern,
had his hand cut off by the blow of an
axe, and so perished; as likewise did many
other Athenians of note and name.
Nevertheless the Athenians secured in
this way seven of the vessels; while with
the remainder the barbarians pushed off,
and taking aboard their Eretrian prisoners
from the island where they had left them
doubled Cape Sunium, hoping to reach
Athens before the return of the Athenians.
The Alcmseonidae were accused by their
countrymen of suggesting this course to
them; they had, it was said, an understand-
ing with the Persians, and made a signal
to them, by raising a shield, after they
were embarked in their ships.
The Persians accordingly sailed round
Sunium. But the Athenians with all
possible speed marched away to the de-
fence of their city, and succeeded in reach-
ing Athens before the appearance of the
barbarians: and as their camp at Marathon
had been pitched in a precinct of Hercules,
so now they encamped in another precinct
of the same god at Cynosarges. The bar-
barian fleet arrived, and lay to off Pha-
lerum, which was at that time the haven
of Athens; but after resting awhile upon
their oars, they departed and sailed away
to Asia.
There fell in this battle of Marathon,
on the side of the barbarians, about six
thousand and four hundred men; on that
of the Athenians, one hundred and ninety-
HISTORY
225
two. Such was the number of the skin
on the one side and the other. A strange
prodigy likewise happened at this fight.
Epizelus, the son of Cuphagoras, an Athe-
nian, was in the thick of the fray, and
behaving himself as a brave man should,
when suddenly he was stricken with blind-
ness, without blow of sword or dart; and
this blindness continued thenceforth dur-
ing the whole of his after life. The follow-
ing is the account which he himself, as I
have heard, gave of the matter: he said
that a gigantic warrior, with a huge beard,
which shaded all his shield, stood over
against him; but the ghostly semblance
passed him by, and slew the man at his
side. Such, as I understand, was the
tale which Epizelus told.
THERMOPYLAE
KING XERXES pitched his camp in the
region of Malis called Trachinia, while
on their side the Greeks occupied the
straits. These straits the Greeks in gen-
eral call Thermopylae (the Hot Gates);
but the natives, and those who dwell in
the neighborhood, call them Pylae (the
Gates). Here then the two armies took
their stand; the one master of all the region
lying north of Trachis, the other of the
country extending southward of that place
to the verge of the continent.
The Greeks who at this spot awaited
the coming of Xerxes were the following: —
From Sparta, three hundred men-at-arms:
from Arcadia, a thousand Tegeans and
Mantineans, five hundred of each people;
a hundred and twenty Orchomenians,
from the Arcadian Orchomenus; and a
thousand from other cities: from Corinth,
four hundred men: from Phlius, two hun-
dred: and from Mycenae eighty. Such
>was the number from the Peloponnese.
There were also present, from Boeotia,
seven hundred Thespians and four hundred
Thebans.
. Besides these troops, the Locrians of
Opus and the Phocians had obeyed the
call of their countrymen, and sent, the
former all the force they had, the latter a
thousand men. For envoys had gone
from the Greeks at Thermopylae among the
Locrians and Phocians, to call on them
for assistance, and to say — "They were
themselves but the vanguard of the host,
sent to precede the main body, which
might every day be expected to follow
them. The sea was in good keeping,
watched by the Athenians, the Eginetans,
and the rest of the fleet. There was no
cause why they should fear; for after all
the invader was not a god but a man;
and there never had been, and never'
would be, a man who was not liable to]
misfortunes from the very day of his birth,
and those misfortunes greater in propor-
tion to his own greatness. The assailant
therefore, being only a mortal, must needs
fall from his glory." Thus urged, the
Locrians and the Phocians had come with
then- troops to Trachis.
The various nations had each captains
of their own under whom they served;
but the one to whom all especially looked
up, and who had the command of the
entire force, was the Lacedaemonian,
Leonidas. Now Leonidas was the son of
Anaxandridas, who was the son of Leo,
who was the son of Eurycratidas, who was
the son of Anaxander, who was the son
of Eurycrates, who was the son of Poly-
ddrus, who was the son of Alcamenes,
who was the son of Telecles, who was the
son of Archelaiis, who was the son of
Agesilaiis, who was the son of Doryssus,
who was the son of Labotas, who was the
son of Echestratus, who was the son of
Agis, who was the son of Eurysthenes, who
was the son of Aristod£mus, who was the
son of Aristomachus, who was the son of
Cleodasus, who was the son of Hyllus, who
was the son of Hercules.
Leonidas had come to be king of Sparta
quite unexpectedly.
Having two elder brothers, Cleomenes
and Dorieus, he had no thought of ever
mounting the throne. However, when
Cleomenes died without male offspring,
as Dorieus was likewise deceased, having
perished in Sicily, the crown fell to Leoni-
das, who was older than Cleombrotus,
the youngest of the sons of Anaxandridas,
and, moreover, was manied to the daugh-
226
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
ter of Cleomcnes. He had now come to
Thermopylae, accompanied by the three
hundred men which the law assigned him,
whom he had himself chosen from among
the citizens, and who were all of them
fathers with sons living. On his way he
had taken the troops from Thebes, whose
number I have already mentioned, and
who were under the command of Leontia-
des the son of Eurymachus. The reason
why he made a point of taking troops
from Thebes, and Thebes only, was, that
the Thebans were strongly suspected of
being well inclined to the Medes. Leoni-
das therefore called on them to come with
him to the war, wishing to see whether
they would comply with his demand,
or openly refuse, and disclaim the Greek
alliance. They, however, though their
wishes leant the other way, nevertheless
sent the men.
The force with Leonidas was sent for-
ward by the Spartans in advance of their
main body, that the sight of them might
encourage the allies to fight, and hinder
them from going over to the Medes, as
it was likely they might have done had
they seen that Sparta was backward.
They intended presently, when they had
celebrated the Carneian festival, which
was what now kept them at home, to
leave a garrison in Sparta, and hasten in
full force to join the army. The rest of
the allies also intended to act similarly;
for it happened that the Olympic festival
fell exactly at this same period. None
of them looked to see the contest at Ther-
mopylae decided so speedily; wherefore
they were content to send forward a mere
advanced guard. Such accordingly were
the intentions of the allies.
The Greek forces at Thermopylae, when
the Persian army drew near to the en-
trance of the pass, were seized with fear;
and a council was held to consider about
a retreat. It was the wish of the Pelo-
ponnesians generally that the army should
fall back upon the Peloponnese, and there
guard the Isthmus. But Leonidas, who
saw with what indignation the Phocians
and Locrians heard of this plan, gave his
voice for remaining where they were, while
they sent envoys to the several cities to
ask for help, since they were too few to
make a stand against an army like that
of the Medes.
While this debate was going on, Xerxes
sent a mounted spy to observe the Greeks,
and note how many they were, and see
what they were doing. He had heard,
before he came out of Thessaly, that a few
men were assembled at this place, and
that at their head were certain Lacedae-
monians, under Leonidas, a descendant
of Hercules. The horseman rode up to
the camp, and looked about him, but did
not see the whole army; for such as were
on the further side of the wall (which had'
been rebuilt and was now carefully
guarded) it was not possible for him to
behold; but he observed those on the out-
side, who were encamped in front of the
rampart. It chanced that at this time
the Lacedaemonians held the outer guard,
and were seen by the spy, some of them
engaged in gymnastic exercises, others
combing their long hair. At this the spy
greatly marvelled, but he counted their
number, and when he had taken accurate
note of everything, he rode back quietly;
for no one pursued after him, nor paid
any heed to his visit. So he returned,
and told Xerxes all that he had seen.
Upon this, Xerxes, who had no means
of surmising the truth — namely, that the
Spartans were preparing to do or die
manfully — but thought it laughable thaf
they should be engaged in such employ -
ments, sent and called to his presence
Demaratus the son of Ariston, who still
remained with the army. When he ap-
peared, Xerxes told him all that he had
heard, and questioned him concerning
the news, since he was anxious to under-
stand the meaning of such behavior on
the part of the Spartans. Then Demara-
tus said —
"I spake to thee, O king! concerning
these men long since, when we had but
just begun our march upon Greece; thou,
however, didst only laugh at my words,
when I told thee of all this, which I saw
would come to pass. Earnestly ao I strug-
gle at all times to speak truth to thee,
HISTORY
227
sire; and now listen to it once more.
These men have come to dispute the pass
with us; and it is for this that they are
now making ready. 'Tis their custom,
when they are about to hazard their lives,
to adorn their heads with care. Be as-
sured, however, that if thou canst subdue
the men who are here and the Lacedae-
monians who remain in Sparta, there is no
other nation in all the world which will
venture to lift a hand in their defence.
Thou hast now to deal with the first
kingdom and town in Greece, and with
the bravest men."
Then Xerxes, to whom what Demaratus
said seemed altogether to surpass belief,
asked further, "How it was possible for so
small an army to contend with his? "
"O king!" Demaratus answered, "let
me be treated as a liar, if matters fall not
out as I say."
But Xerxes was not persuaded any the
more. Four whole days he suffered to
go by, expecting that the Greeks would
run away. When, however, he found
on the fifth that they were not gone,
thinking that their firm stand was mere
impudence and recklessness, he grew
wroth, and sent against them the Medes
and Cissians, with orders to take them
alive and bring them into his presence.
Then the Medes rushed forward and
charged the Greeks, but fell in vast num-
bers: others however took the places of
the slain, and would not be beaten off,
though they suffered terrible losses. In
this way it became clear to all, and es-
pecially to the king, that though he had
plenty of combatants, he had but very few
warriors. The struggle, however, con-
tinued during the whole day.
Then the Medes, having met so rough
a reception, withdrew from the fight;
and their place was taken by the band of
Persians under Hydarnes, whom the king
called his "Immortals:" they, it was
thought, would soon finish the business.
But when they joined battle with the
Greeks, 't was with no better success than
the Median detachment — things went
much as before — the two armies fighting
in a narrow space, and the barbarians
using shorter spears than the Greeks, and
having no advantage from their numbers.
The Lacedaemonians fought in a way
worthy of note and showed themselves
far more skilful in fight than their adver-
saries, often turning their backs, and mak-
ing as though they were all flying away,
on which the barbarians would rush after
them with much noise and shouting,
when the Spartans at their approach would
wheel round and face their pursuers, in
this way destroying vast numbers of the
enemy. Some Spartans likewise fell in
these encounters, but only a very few.
At last the Persians, rinding that all their
efforts to gam the pass availed nothing,
and that, whether they attacked by divi-
sions or in any other way, it was to no
purpose, withdrew to their own quarters.
During these assaults, it is said that
Xerxes, who was watching the battle,
thrice leaped from the throne on which he
sate, in terror for his army.
Next day the combat was renewed, but
with no better success on the part of the
barbarians. The Greeks were so few that
the barbarians hoped to find them dis-
abled, by reason of their wounds, from
offering any further resistance; and so
they once more attacked them. But the
Greeks were drawn up in detachments
according to their cities, and bore the
brunt of the battle in turns, — all except
the Phocians, who had been stationed on
the mountain to guard the pathway.
So, when the Persians found no difference
between that day and the preceding, they
again retired to their quarters.
Now, as the king was in a great strait,
and knew not how he should deal with
the emergency, Ephialtes, the son of
Eurydemus, a man of Malis, came to him
and was admitted to a conference. Stirred
by the hope of receiving a rich reward at
the king's hands, he had come to tell
him of the pathway which led across the
mountain to Thermopylae; by which dis-
closure he brought destruction on the
band of Greeks who had there withstood
the barbarians. This Ephialtes after-
wards, from fear of the Lacedaemonians,
fled into Thessaly; and during his exile, in
228
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
an assembly of the Amphictyons held at
Pylae, a price was set upon his head by
the Pylagorae. When some time had gone
by, he returned from exile, and went to
Anticyra, where he was slain by Athena-
des, a native of Trachis. Athfinades did
not slay him for his treachery, but for
another reason, which I shall mention in
a latter part of my history: yet still the
Lacedaemonians honored him none the less.
Thus then did Ephialtes perish a long time
afterwards.
Besides this there is another story told,
which I do not at all believe — to wit,
that OnStas the son of Phanagoras, a
native of Carystus, and Corydallus, a
man of Anticyra, were the persons who
spoke on this matter to the king, and took
the Persians across the mountain. One
may guess which story is true, from the
fact that the deputies of the Greeks, the
Pylagorae, who must have had the best
means of ascertaining the truth, did not
offer the reward for the heads of OnStas
and Corydallus, but for that of Ephialtes
of Trachis; and again from the flight of
Ephialtes, which we know to have been
on this account. Ongtas, I allow, although
he was not a Malian, might have been
acquainted with the path, if he had lived
much in that part of the country; but as
Ephialtes was the person who actually
led the Persians round the mountain by
the pathway, I leave his name on record
as that of the man who did the deed.
Great was the joy of Xerxes on this
occasion; and as he approved highly of
the enterprise which Ephialtes undertook
to accomplish, he forthwith sent upon the
errand Hydarnes, and the Persians under
him. The troops left the camp about the
time of the lighting of the lamps. The
pathway along which they went was first
discovered by the Malians of these parts,
who soon afterwards led the Thessalians
by it to attack the Phocians, at the tune
when the Phocians fortified the pass with
a wall, and so put themselves under covert
from danger. And ever since, the path
has always been put to an ill use by the
Malians.
The course which it takes is the follow-
ing:— Beginning at the Asopus, where
that stream flows through the cleft in the
hills, it runs along the ridge of the moun-
tain (which is called, like the pathway
over it, Anopaea), and ends at the city of
Alp£nus — the first Locrian town as you
come from Malis — by the stone called
Melampygus and the seats of the Cerco-
pians. Here it is as narrow as at any
other point.
The Persians took this path, and, cross-
ing the Asopus, continued their march
through the whole of the night, having
the mountains of (Eta on their right hand,
and on their left those of Trachis. At
dawn of day they found themselves close
to the summit. Now the hill was guarded,
as I have already said, by a thousand
Phocian men-at-arms, who were placed
there to defend the pathway, and at the
same tune to secure their own country.
They had been given the guard of the
mountain path, while the other Greeks
defended the pass below, because they had
volunteered for the service, and had
pledged themselves to Leonidas to main-
tain the post.
The ascent of the Persians became
known to the Phocians in the following
manner: — During all the time that they
were making their way up, the Greeks
remained unconscious of it, inasmuch
as the whole mountain was covered with
groves of oak; but it happened that the
air was very still, and the leaves which
the Persians stirred with their feet made,
as it was likely they would, a loud rustling,
whereupon the Phocians jumped up and
flew to seize their arms. In a moment the
barbarians came in sight, and, perceiving
men arming themselves, were greatly
amazed; for they had fallen in with an
enemy when they expected no opposition.
Hydarnes, alarmed at the sight, and fear-
ing lest the Phocians might be Lacedae-
monians, inquired of Ephialtes to what
nation these troops belonged. Ephialtes
told him the exact truth, whereupon he
arrayed his Persians for battle. The
Phocians, galled by the showers of arrows
to which they were exposed, and imagining
themselves the special object of the Per-
HISTORY
229
sian attack, fled hastily to the crest of
the mountain, and there made ready to
meet death; but while their mistake con-
tinued, the Persians, with Ephialtes and
Hydarnes, not thinking it worth their
while to delay on account of Phocians,
passed on and descended the mountain
with all possible speed.
The Greeks at Thermopylae received
the first warning of the destruction which
the dawn would bring on them from the
seer Megistias, who read their fate in the
victims as he was sacrificing. After this
deserters came in, and brought the news
that the Persians were marching round
by the hills: it was still night when
these men arrived. Last of all, the scouts
came running down from the heights,
and brought in the same accounts, when
the day was just beginning to break.
Then the Greeks held a council to con-
sider what they should do, and here opin-
ions were divided: some were strong
against quitting their post, while others
contended to the contrary. So when the
council had broken up, part of the troops
departed and went their ways homeward
to their several states; part however re-
solved to remain, and to stand by Leonidas
to the last.
It is said that Leonidas himself sent
away the troops who departed, because
ie tendered their safety, but thought it
unseemly that either he or his Spartans
should quit the post which they had been
especially sent to guard. For my own
part, I incline to think that Leonidas gave
the order, because he perceived the allies
to be out of heart and unwilling to encoun-
ter the danger to which his own mind was
made up. He therefore commanded them
to retreat, but said that he himself could
not draw back with honor; knowing that,
if he stayed, glory awaited him, and that
Sparta in that case would not lose her
prosperity. For when the Spartans, at
the very beginning of the war, sent to
consult the oracle concerning it, the answer
which they received from the Pythoness
was, "that either Sparta must be over-
thrown by the barbarians, or one of her
kings must perish." The prophecy was
delivered in hexameter verse, and ran
thus:—
"O ye men who dwell in the streets of broad
Lacedaemon!
Either your glorious town shall be sacked by the
children of Perseus,
Or, in exchange, must all through the whole
Laconian country
Mourn for the loss of a king, descendant of great
Heracles.
He cannot be withstood by the courage of bulls
nor of lions,
Strive as they may; he is mighty as Jove- there
is nought that shall stay him,
Till he have got for his prey your king, or your
glorious city."
The remembrance of this answer, I think,
and the wish to secure the whole glory for
the Spartans, caused Leonidas to send the
allies away. This is more likely than that
they quarrelled with him, and took their
departure in such unruly fashion.
To me it seems no small argument hi
favor of this view, that the seer also who
accompanied the army, Megistias, the
Acarnanian, — said to have been of the
blood of Melampus, and the same who
was led by the appearance of the victims
to warn the Greeks of the danger which
threatened them, — received orders to re-
tire (as it is certain he did) from Leonidas,
that he might escape the coming destruc-
tion. Megistias, however, though bidden
to depart, refused, and stayed with the
army; but he had an only son present
with the expedition, whom he now sent
away.
So the allies, when Leonidas ordered
them to retire, obeyed him and forthwith
departed. Only the Thespians and the
Thebans remained with the Spartans;
and of these the Thebans were kept
back by Leonidas as hostages, very much
against their will. The Thespians, on the
contrary, stayed entirely of their own ac-
cord, refusing to retreat, and declaring
that they would not forsake Leonidas and
his followers. So they abode v/ith the
Spartans, and died with them. Their
leader was Demophilus, the son of Dia-
dromes.
At sunrise Xerxes made libations, after
which he waited until the time when the
230
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
forum is wont to fill, and then began his
advance. Ephialtes had instructed him
thus, as the descent of the mountain is
much quicker, and the distance much
shorter, than tie way round the hills, and
the ascent. So the barbarians under
Xerxes began to draw nigh; and the Greeks
under Leonidas, as they now went forth
determined to die, advanced much further
than on previous days, until they reached
the more open portion of the pass. Hither-
to they had held their station within the
wall, and from this had gone forth to fight
at the point where the pass was the nar-
rowest. Now they joined battle beyond
the defile, and carried slaughter among the
barbarians, who fell hi heaps. Behind
them the captains of the squadrons,
armed with whips, urged their men for-
ward with continual blows. Many were
thrust into the sea, and there perished; a
still greater number were trampled to
death by their own soldiers; no one heeded
the dying. For the Greeks, reckless of
their own safety and desperate, since they
knew that, as the mountain had been
crossed, their destruction was nigh at
hand, exerted themselves with the most
furious valor against the barbarians.
By this time the spears of the greater
number were all shivered, and with their
swords they hewed down the ranks of
the Persians; and here, as they strove,
Leonidas fell fighting bravely, together
with many other famous Spartans, whose
names I have taken care to learn on ac-
count of their great worthiness, as indeed
I have those of all the three hundred.
There fell too at the same time very many
famous Persians: among them, two sons
of Darius, Abrocomes and Hyperanthes,
his children by Phratagune, the daughter
of Artanes. Artanes was brother of
King Darius, being a son of Hystaspes,
the son of Arsames; and when he gave his
daughter to the king, he made him heir
likewise of all his substance; for she was
his only child.
Thus two brothers of Xerxes here fought
and fell. And now there arose a fierce
struggle between the Persians and the
Lacedaemonians over the body of Leonidas,
in which the Greeks four times drove back
the enemy, and at last by their great brav-
ery succeeded in bearing off the body.
This combat was scarcely ended when the
Persians with Ephialtes approached; and
the Greeks, informed that they drew nigh,
made a change in the manner of their
fighting. Drawing back into the narrow-
est part of the pass, and retreating even
behind the cross wall, they posted them-
selves upon a hillock, where they stood all
drawn up together in one close body,
except only the Thebans. The hillock
whereof I speak is at the entrance of the
straits, where the stone lion stands which
was set up in honor of Leonidas. Here
they defended themselves to the last, such
as still had swords using them, and the
others resisting with their hands and teeth;
till the barbarians, who in part had pulled
down the wall and attacked them hi front,
in part had gone round and now encircled
them upon every side, overwhelmed and
buried the remnant which was left beneath
showers of missile weapons.
Thus nobly did the whole body of Lace-
daemonians and Thespians behave; but
nevertheless one man is said to have dis-
tinguished himself above all the rest, to
wit, Di£neces the Spartan. A speech
which he made before the Greeks engaged
the Medes, remains on record. One of
the Trachinians told him, "Such was the
number of the barbarians, that when they
shot forth their arrows the sun would be
darkened by their multitude." Di£neces,
not at all frightened at these words, but
making light of the Median numbers, an-
swered, "Our Trachinian friend brings us
excellent tidings. If the Medes darken
the sun, we shall have our fight in the
shade. ' ' Other sayings too of a like nature
are reported to have been left on record by
this same person.
BATTLE OF SALAMIS
WHEN the captains from these various
nations were come together at Salamis, &
council of war was summoned; and Eury-
biades proposed that any one who liked
to advise, should say which place seemed
HISTORY
231
to him the fittest, among those still in
the possession of the Greeks, to be the
scene of a naval combat. Attica, he said,
was not to be thought of now; but he
desired their counsel as to the remainder.
The speakers mostly advised that the
fleet should sail away to the Isthmus, and
there give battle in defence of the Pelopon-
nese; and they urged as a reason for this,
that if they were worsted in a sea-fight
at Salamis, they would be shut up in an
island where they could get no help; but
if they were beaten near the Isthmus,
they could escape to their homes.
As the captains from the Peloponnese
were thus advising, there came an Athe-
nian to the camp, who brought word that
the barbarians had entered Attica, and
were ravaging and burning everything.
For the division of the army under Xerxes
was just arrived at Athens from its march
through Bceotia, where it had burnt
Thespiae and Platsea — both which cities
were forsaken by their inhabitants, who
had fled to the Peloponnese — and now it
was laying waste all the possessions of
the Athenians. Thespiae and Plataea had
been burnt by the Persians, because they
knew from the Thebans that neither of
those cities had espoused their side.
Since the passage of the Hellespont
and the commencement of the march
upon Greece, a space of four months had
gone by; one, while the army made the
crossing, and delayed about the region of
the Hellespont; and three while they pro-
ceeded thence to Attica, which they en-
tered in the archonship of Calliades.
They found the city forsaken; a few people
only remained in the temple, either keepers
of the treasures, or men of the poorer sort.
These persons having fortified the citadel
with planks and boards, held out against
the enemy. It was in some measure their
poverty which had prevented them from
seeking shelter in Salamis; but there was
likewise another reason which in part
induced them to remain. They imagined
themselves to have discovered the true
meaning of the oracle uttered by the
Pythoness, which promised that "the
wooden wall" should never be taken —
the wooden wall, they thought, did not
mean the ships, but the place where they
had taken refuge.
The Persians encamped upon the hill
over against the citadel, which is called
Mars' hill by the Athenians, and began
the siege of the place, attacking the Greeks
with arrows whereto pieces of lighted tow
were attached, which they shot at the
barricade. And now those who were
within the citadel found themselves in a
most woeful case; for their wooden ram-
part betrayed them; still, however, they
continued to resist. It was in vain that
the Pisistratidae came to them and offered
terms of surrender — they stoutly refused
all parley, and among their other modes of
defence, rolled down huge masses of stone
upon the barbarians as they were mount-
ing up to the gates: so that Xerxes was
for a long time very greatly perplexed, and
could not contrive any way to take them.
At last, however, in the midst of these
many difficulties, the barbarians made
discovery of an access. For verily the
oracle had spoken truth; and it was fated
that the whole mainland of Attica shpuld
fall beneath the sway of the Persians.
Right in front of the citadel, but behind
the gates and the common ascent — where
no watch was kept, and no one would
have thought it possible that any foot of
man could climb — a few soldiers mounted
from the sanctuary of Aglaurus, Cecrops'
daughter, notwithstanding the steepness
of the precipice. As soon as the Athenians
saw them upon the summit, some threw
themselves headlong from the wall, and
so perished; while others fled for refuge
to the inner part of the temple. The Per-
sians rushed to the gates and opened them,
after which they massacred the suppliants.
When all were slain, they plundered the
temple, and fired every part of the citadel.
Xerxes, thus completely master of
Athens, despatched a horseman to Susa,
with a message to Artabanus, informing
him of his success hitherto. The day
after, he collected together all the Athenian
exiles who had come into Greece in his
train, and bade them go up into the citadel,
and there offer sacrifice after their own
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
fashion. I know not whether he had had
a dream which made him give this order,
or whether he felt some remorse on account
of having set the temple on fire. However
this may have been, the exiles were not
slow to obey the command given them.
I will now explain why I have made
mention of this circumstance: there is a
temple of Erechtheus the Earth-born,
as he is called, in this citadel, containing
within it an olive-tree and a sea. The
tale goes among the Athenians, that they
were placed there as witnesses by Neptune
and Minerva, when they had their con-
tention about the country. Now this
olive-tree had been burnt with the rest of
the temple when the barbarians took the
place. But when the Athenians, whom
1 the king had commanded to offer sacrifice,
I went up into the temple for the purpose,
they found a fresh shoot, as much as a
cubit hi length, thrown out from the old
trunk. Such at least was the account
which these persons gave.
Meanwhile, at Salamis, the Greeks no
sooner heard what had befallen the Athe-
nian citadel, than they fell into such alarm
that some of the captains did not even wait
for the council to come to a vote, but em-
barked hastily on board their vessels, and
hoisted sail as though they would take to
flight immediately. The rest, who stayed
at the council board, came to a vote that
the fleet should give battle at the Isthmus.
Night now drew on; and the captains,
dispersing from the meeting, proceeded
on board their respective ships.
Themistocles, as he entered his own
vessel, was met by Mnesiphilus, an Athe-
nian, who asked him what the council had
resolved to do. On learning that the re-
solve was to stand away for the Isthmus,
and there give battle on behalf of the
Peloponnese, Mnesiphilus exclaimed —
"If these men sail away from Salamis,
thou wilt have no fight at all for the one
fatherland; for they will all scatter them-
selves to their own homes; and neither
Eurybiades nor any one else will be able
to hinder them, nor to stop the breaking
up of the armament. Thus will Greece
be brought to ruin through evil counsels.
But haste thee now; and, if there be any
possible way, seek to unsettle these re-
solves— mayhap thou mightest persuade
Eurybiades to change his mind, and con-
tinue here."
The suggestion greatly pleased Themis-
tocles; and without answering a word, he
went straight to the vessel of Eurybiades.
Arrived there, he let him know that he
wanted to speak with him on a matter
touching the public service. So Eurybia-
des bade him come on board, and say
whatever he wished. Then Themistocles,
seating himself at his side, went over all
the arguments which he had heard from
Mnesiphilus, pretending as if they were
his own, and added to them many new
ones besides; until at last he persuaded
Eurybiades, by his importunity, to quit
his ship and again collect the captains to
council.
As soon as they were come, and before
Eurybiades had opened to them his pur-
pose in assembling them together, Themis-
tocles, as men are wont to do when they
are very anxious, spoke much to divers of
them; whereupon the Corinthian cap tarn,
Adeimantus, the son of Ocytus, observed —
"Themistocles, at the games they who
start too soon are scourged." "True,"
rejoined the other in his excuse, "but they
who wait too late are not crowned."
Thus he gave the Corinthian at this
time a mild answer; and towards Eury-
biades himself he did not now use any of
those arguments which he had urged be-
fore, or say aught of the allies betaking
themselves to flight if once they broke up
from Salamis; it would have been ungrace-
ful for him, when the confederates were
present, to make accusation against any:
but he had recourse to quite a new sort of
reasoning, and addressed him as follows: —
"With thee it rests, O Eurybiades! to
save Greece, if thou wilt only hearken
unto me, and give the enemy battle here,
rather than yield to the advice of those
among us, who would have the fleet with-
drawn to the Isthmus. Hear now, I
beseech thee, and judge between the two
courses. At the Isthmus thou wilt fight
in an open sea, which is greatly to our
HISTORY
233
disadvantage, since our ships are heavier
and fewer in number than the enemy's;
and further, thou wilt in any case lose
Salamis, Megara, and Egina, even if all
the rest goes well with us. The land and
sea force of the Persians will advance
together; and thy retreat will but draw
them towards the Peloponnese, and so
bring all Greece into peril. If, on the
other hand, thou doest as I advise, these
are the advantages which thou wilt so
secure: in the first place, as we shall fight
in a narrow sea with few ships against
many, if the war follows the common
course, we shall gain a great victory; for
to fight in a narrow space is favorable to
us — in an open sea, to them. Again,
Salamis will in this case be preserved,
where we have placed our wives and chil-
dren. Nay, that very point by which ye
set most store, is secured as much by this
course as by the other; for whether we
fight here or at the Isthmus, we shall
equally give battle in defence of the
Peloponnese. Assuredly ye will not do
wisely to draw the Persians upon that
region. For if things turn out as I anti-
cipate, and we beat them by sea, then we
shall have kept your Isthmus free from
the barbarians, and they will have ad-
vanced no further than Attica, but from
thence have fled back in disorder; and we
shall, moreover, have saved Megara,
Egina, and Salamis itself, where an oracle
has said that we are to overcome our
enemies. When men counsel reasonably,
reasonable success ensues; but when in
their counsels they reject reason, God does
not choose to follow the wanderings of
human fancies."
When Themistocles had thus spoken,
Adeimantus the Corinthian again attacked
him, and bade him be silent, since he
was a man without a city; at the same
tune he called on Eurybiades not to put
the question at the instance of one who
had no country, and urged that Themis-
tocles should show of what state he was
envoy, before he gave his voice with the
rest. This reproach he made, because
the city of Athens had been taken, and
was in the hands of the barbarians.
Hereupon Themistocles spake many bitter
things against Adeimantus and the Corin-
thians generally; and for proof that he had
a country, reminded the captains, that
with two hundred ships at his command,
all fully manned for battle, he had both
city and territory as good as theirs; since
there was no Grecian state which could re-
sist his men if they were to make a descent.
After this declaration, he turned to
Eurybiades, and addressing him with still
greater warmth and earnestness — "If thou
wilt stay here," he said, "and behave like
a brave man, all will be well — if not, thou
wilt bring Greece to ruin. For the whole
fortune of the war depends on our ships.
Be thou persuaded by my words. If not,
we will take our families on board, and go,
just as we are, to Siris, hi Italy, which is
ours from of old, and which the prophecies
declare we are to colonize some day or
other. You then, when you have lost
allies like us, will hereafter call to mind
what I have now said."
At these words of Themistocles, Eury-
biades changed his determination; princi-
pally, as I believe, because he feared that
if he withdrew the fleet to the Isthmus,
the Athenians would sail away, and knew
that without the Athenians, the rest of
their ships could be no match for the fleet
of the enemy. He therefore decided to
remain, and give battle at Salamis.
And now, the different chiefs, notwith-
standing their skirmish of words, on learn-
ing the decision of Eurybiades, at once
made ready for the fight. Morning broke ;
and, just as the sun rose, the shock of an
earthquake was felt both on shore and
at sea: whereupon the Greeks resolved to
approach the gods with prayer, and like-
wise to send and invite the ^Eacids to their
aid. And this they did, with as much
speed as they had resolved on it. Prayers
were offered to all the gods; and Telamon
and Ajax were invoked at once from Sala-
mis, while a ship was sent to Egina to
fetch ^Eacus himself, and the other ^acids.
The following is a tale which was told
by Dioeus, the son of Theocydes, an
Athenian, who was at this time an exile,
and had gained a good report among the
234
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Medes. He declared that after the army
of Xerxes had, in the absence of the Athe-
nians, wasted Attica, he chanced to be
with Demaratus the Lacedaemonian in the
Thriasian plain, and that while there, he
saw a cloud of dust advancing from Eleu-
sis, such as a host of thirty thousand men
might raise. As he and his companion
were wondering who the men, from whom
the dust arose, could possibly be, a sound
of voices reached his ear, and he thought
that he recognized the mystic hymn to
Bacchus. Now Demaratus was unac-
quainted with the rites of Eleusis, and so
he inquired of Dicaeus what the voices
were saying. Dicaeus made answer —
"O Demaratus! beyond a doubt some
mighty calamity is about to befall the
king's army! For it is manifest, inasmuch
as Attica is deserted by its inhabitants,
that the sound which we have heard is
an unearthly one, and is now upon its
way from Eleusis to aid the Athenians
and their confederates. If it descends
upon the Peloponnese, danger will threaten
the king himself and his land army — if it
moves towards the ships at Salamis, 't will
go hard but the king's fleet there suffers
destruction. Every year the Athenians
celebrate this feast to the Mother and the
Daughter; and all who wish, whether they
be Athenians or any other Greeks, are
initiated. The sound thou hearest is the
Bacchic song, which is wont to be sung at
that festival." "Hush now," rejoined the
other; "and see thou tell no man of this
matter. For if thy words be brought to
the king's ear, thou wilt assuredly lose
thy head because of them; neither I nor
any man living can then save thee. Hold
thy peace therefore. The gods will see
to the king's army." Thus Demaratus
counselled him; and they looked, and saw
the dust, from which the sound arose,
become a cloud, and the cloud rise up into
the air and sail away to Salamis, making
for the station of the Grecian fleet. Then
they knew that it was the fleet of Xerxes
which would suffer destruction. Such was
the tale told by Dicaeus the son of Theo-
cydes; and he appealed for its truth to
Demaratus and other eye-witnesses.
The men belonging to the fleet of Xerxes,
after they had seen the Spartan dead at
Thermopylae, and crossed the channel from
Trachis to Histiaea, waited there by the
space of three days, and then sailing down
through the Euripus, in three more came
to Phalgrum. In my judgment, the Per-
sian forces both by land and sea when they
invaded Attica were not less numerous
than they had been on their arrival at
Sepias and Thermopylae. For against the
Persian loss in the storm and at Thermo-
pylae, and again in the sea-fights off
Artemisium, I set the various nations
which had since joined the king — as the
Malians, the Dorians, the Locrians, and
the Boeotians — each serving in full force
in his army except the last, who did not
number in their ranks either the Thes-
pians or the Plataeans; and together with
these, the Carystians, the Andrians, the
Tenians, and the other people of the is-
lands, who all fought on this side except
the five states already mentioned. For as
the Persians penetrated further into
Greece, they were joined continually by
fresh nations.
Reinforced by the contingents of all
these various states, except Paros, the
barbarians reached Athens. As for the
Parians, they tarried at Cythnus, waiting
to see how the war would go. The rest
of the sea forces came safe to Phalerum;
where they were visited by Xerxes, who
had conceived a desire to go aboard and
learn the wishes of the fleet. So he came
and sate in a seat of honor; and the sov-
ereigns of the nations, and the captains
of the ships, were sent for, to appear before
hmi, and as they arrived took their seats
according to the rank assigned them by
the king. In the first seat sate the king
of Sidon; after him, the king of Tyre; then
the rest in their order. When the whole
had taken their places, one after another,
and were set down in orderly array,
Xerxes, to try them, sent Mardonius and
questioned each, whether a sea-fight should
be risked or no.
Mardonius accordingly went round the
entire assemblage, beginning with the
Sidonian monarch, aiad asked this ques-
HISTORY
235
tion; to which all gave the same answer,
advising to engage the Greeks, except only
Artemisia, who spake as follows: —
" Say to the king, Mardonius, that these
are my words to him: I was not the least
brave of those who fought at Euboea,
nor were my achievements there among
the meanest; it is my right, therefore, O
my lord, to tell thee plainly what I think
to be most for thy advantage now. This
then is my advice. Spare thy ships, and
do not risk a battle; for these people are
as much superior to thy people in seaman-
ship, as men to women. Y.liat so great
need is there for thee to incur hazard
at sea? Art thou not master of Athens,
for which thou didst undertake thy ex-
pedition? Is not Greece subject to thee?
Not a soul now resists thy advance. They
who once resisted, were handled even as
they deserved. Now learn how I ex-
pect that affairs will go with thy ad-
versaries. If thou art not over-hasty to
engage with them by sea, but wilt keep
thy fleet near the land, then whether thou
abidest as thou art, or marchest forward
towards the Peloponnese, thou wilt easily
accomplish all for which thou art come
hither. The Greeks cannot hold out
against thee very long; thou wilt soon part
them asunder, and scatter them to their
several homes. In the island where they
lie, I hear they have no food in store; nor
is it likely, if thy land force begins its
march towards the Peloponnese, that they
will remain quietly where they are — at
least such as come from that region.
Of a surety they will not greatly trouble
themselves to give battle on behalf of the
Athenians. On the other hand, if thou
art hasty to fight, I tremble lest the de-
feat of thy sea force bring harm like-
wise to thy land army. This, too,
thou shouldst remember, O king; good
masters are apt to have bad servants,
and bad masters good ones. Now, as
thou art the best of men, thy servants
must needs be a sorry set. These Egyp-
tians, Cyprians, Cilicians, and Pamphy-
lians, who are counted in the number of
thy subject-allies, of how little service are
they to thee!"
As Artemisia spake, they who wished
her well were greatly troubled concerning
her words, thinking that she would suffer
some hurt at the king's hands, because
she exhorted him not to risk a battle;
they, on the other hand, who disliked and
envied her, favored as she was by the king
above all the rest of the allies, rejoiced at
her declaration, expecting that her life
would be the forfeit. But Xerxes, when
the words of the several speakers were re-
ported to him, was pleased beyond all
others with the reply of Artemisia; and
whereas, even before this, he had always
esteemed her much, he now praised her
more than ever. Nevertheless, he gave
orders that the advice of the greater num-
ber should be followed; for he thought that
at Eubcea the fleet had not done its best,
because he himself was not there to see —
whereas this tune he resolved that he
would be an eye-witness of the combat.
Orders were now given to stand out to
sea; and the ships proceeded towards
Salamis, and took up the stations to which
they were directed, without let or hin-
drance from the enemy. The day, how-
ever, was too far spent for them to begin
the battle, since night already approached:
so they prepared to engage upon the
morrow. The Greeks, meanwhile, were
in great distress and alarm, more espe-
cially those of the Peloponnese, who were
troubled that they had been kept at
Salamis to fight on behalf of the Athenian
territory, and feared that, if they should
suffer defeat, they would be pent up and
besieged in an island, while their own coun-
try was left unprotected.
The same night the land army of the
barbarians began its march towards the
Peloponnese, where, however, all that
was possible had been done to prevent
the enemy from forcing an entrance by
land. As soon as ever news reached the
Peloponnese of the death of Leonidas and
his companions at Thermopylae, the in-
habitants flocked together from the various
cities, and encamped at the Isthmusv under
the command of Cleombrotus, son of
Anaxandridas, and brother of Leonidas.
Here their first care was to block up the
236
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Scironian Way; after which it was deter-
mined in council to build a wall across
the Isthmus. As the number assembled
amounted to many tens of thousands, and
there was not one who did not give himself
to the work, it was soon finished. Stones,
bricks, timber, baskets filled full of sand,
were used in the building; and not a
moment was lost by those who gave their
aid; for they labored without ceasing
either by night or day.
Now the nations who gave their aid,
and who had flocked in full force to the
Isthmus, were the following: the Lacedae-
monians, all the tribes of the Arcadians,
the Eleans, the Corinthians, the Sicyon-
ians, the Epidaurians, the Phliasians,
the Troezenians, and the Hermionians.
These all gave their aid, being greatly
alarmed at the danger which threatened
Greece. But the other inhabitants of the
Peloponnese took no part in the matter;
though the Olympic and Carneian festivals
were now over.
Seven nations inhabit the Peloponnese.
Two of them are aboriginal, and still con-
tinue in the regions where they dwelt
at the first — to wit, the Arcadians and the
Cynurians. A third, that of the Achaeans,
has never left the Peloponnese, but has
been dislodged from its own proper coun-
try, and inhabits a district which once
belonged to others. The remaining na-
tions, four out of the seven, are all immi-
grants— namely, the Dorians, the ^Eto-
Uans, the Dryopians, and the Lemnians.
To the Dorians belong several very famous
cities; to the ^Etolians one only, that is,
Elis; to the Dryopians, Hermione and that
Asine which lies over against Cardamyle
in Laconia; to the Lemnians, all the towns
of the Paroreats. The aboriginal Cynu-
rians alone seem to be lonians; even they,
however, have, in course of time, grown
to be Dorians, under the government of the
Argives, whose Orneats and vassals they
were. All the cities of these seven nations,
except those mentioned above, stood aloof
from the war; and by so doing, if I may
speak freely, they in fact took part with
the Medes.
So the Greeks at the Isthmus toiled
unceasingly, as though in the greatest
peril; since they never imagined that any
great success would be gained by the fleet.
The Greeks at Salamis, on the other hand,
when they heard what the rest were about,
felt greatly alarmed; but their fear was
not so much for themselves as for the
Peloponnese. At first they conversed
together in low tones, each man with his
fellow, secretly, and marvelled at the folly
shown by Eurybiades; but presently the
smothered feeling broke out, and another
assembly was held; whereat the old sub-
jects provoked much talk from the
speakers, one side maintaining that it was
best to sail to the Peloponnese and risk
battle for that, instead of abiding at
Salamis and fighting for a land already
taken by the enemy; while the other,
which consisted of the Athenians, Egine-
tans, and Megarians, was urgent to remain
and have the battle fought where they
were.
Then Themistocles, when he saw that
the Peloponnesians would carry the vote
against him, went out secretly from the
council, and, instructing a certain man
what he should say, sent him on board a
merchant ship to the fleet of the Medes.
The man's name was Sicinnus; he was one
of Themistocles' household slaves, and
acted as tutor to his sons; in after times,
when the Thespians were admitting per-
sons to citizenship, Themistocles made
him a Thespian, and a rich man to boot.
The ship brought Sicinnus to the Persian
fleet, and there he delivered his message
to the leaders in these words: —
"The Athenian commander has sent
me to you privily, without the knowledge
of the other Greeks. He is a well-wisher
to the king's cause, and would rather suc-
cess should attend on you than on his
countrymen; wherefore he bids me tell
you that fear has seized the Greeks and
they are meditating a hasty flight. Now
then it is open to you to achieve the best
work that ever ye wrought, if only ye
will hinder their escaping. They no longer
agree among themselves, so that they will
not now make any resistance — nay, 't is
likely ye may see a fight already begun
HISTORY
237
between such as favor and such as oppose
your cause." The messenger, when he
had thus expressed himself, departed and
was seen no more.
Then the captains, believing all that
the messenger had said, proceeded to land
a large body of Persian troops on the
islet of Psyttaleia, which lies between
Salamis and the mainland; after which,
about the hour of midnight, they advanced
their western wing towards Salamis, so as
to inclose the Greeks. At the same time
the force stationed about Ceos and Cyno-
sura moved forward, and filled the whole
strait as far as Munychia with their ships.
This advance was made to prevent the
Greeks from escaping by flight, and to
block them up in Salamis, where it was
thought that vengeance might be taken
upon them for the battles fought near
Artemisium. The Persian troops were
landed on the islet of Psyttaleia, because,
as soon as the battle began, the men and
wrecks were likely to be drifted thither,
as the isle lay in the very path of the com-
ing fight, — and they would thus be able
to save their own men and destroy those
of the enemy. All these movements were
made in silence, that the Greeks might
have no knowledge of them; and they
occupied the whole night, so that the men
had no time to get their sleep.
I cannot say that there is no truth in
prophecies, or feel inclined to call in ques-
tion those which speak with clearness,
when I think of the following: —
"When they shall bridge with their ships to the
sacred strand of Diana
Girt with the golden falchion, and eke to marine
Cynosura,
Mad hope swelling their hearts at the downfall
of beautiful Athens —
Then shall godlike Right extinguish haughty
Presumption,
Insult's furious offspring, who thinketh to over-
throw all things.
Brass with brass shall mingle, and Mars with
blood shall empurple
Ocean's waves. Then — then shall the day of
Grecia's freedom
Come from Victory fair, and Saturn's son all-
seeing."
When I look to this, and perceive how
clearly Bacis spoke, I neither venture
myself to say anything against prophecies
nor do I approve of others impugning
them.
Meanwhile, among the captains at
Salamis, the strife of words grew fierce.
As yet they did not know that they were
encompassed, but imagined that the bar-
barians remained in the same places where
they had seen them the day before.
In the midst of their contention, Aris-
tides, the son of Lysimachus, who had
crossed from Egina, arrived in Salamis.
He was an Athenian, and had been ostra-
cized by the commonalty; yet I believe,
from what I have heard concerning his
character, that there was not in all Athens
a man so worthy or so just as he. He
now came to the council, and, standing
outside, called for Themistocles. Now
Themistocles was not his friend, but his
most determined enemy. However, under
the pressure of the great dangers impend-
ing, Aristides forgot their feud, and called
Themistocles out of the council, since he
wished to confer with him. He had heard
before his arrival of the impatience of the
Peloponnesians to withdraw the fleet tc
the Isthmus. As soon therefore as The-
mistocles came forth, Aristides addressed
him in these words: —
"Our rivalry at all times, and especially
at the present season, ought to be a strug-
gle, which of us shall most advantage
our country. Let me then say to thee,
that so far as regards the departure of the
Peloponnesians from this place, much talk
and little will be found precisely alike.
I have seen with my own eyes that which
I now report: that, however much the
Corinthians or Eurybiades himself may
wish it, they cannot now retreat; for we
are enclosed on every side by the enemy.
Go hi to them, and make this known."
"Thy advice is excellent," answered the
other; "and thy tidings are also good.
That which I earnestly desired to happen,
thine eyes have beheld accomplished.
Know that what the Medes have now done
was at my instance; for it was necessary,
as our men would not fight here of their
own free will, to make them fight whether
they would or no. But come now, as thou
338
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
hast brought the good news, go in and
tell it. For if I speak to them, they will
think it a feigned tale, and will not believe
that the barbarians have inclosed us
around. Therefore do thou go to them,
and inform them how matters stand. If
they believe thee, 't will be for the best;
but if otherwise, it will not harm. For it
is impossible that they should now flee
away, if we are indeed shut in on all sides,
as thou sayest."
Then Aristides entered the assembly,
and spoke to the captains: he had come,
he told them, from Egina, and had but
barely escaped the blockading vessels —
the Greek fleet was entirely inclosed by
the ships of Xerxes — and he advised them
to get themselves in readiness to resist the
foe. Having said so much, he withdrew.
And now another contest arose; for the
greater part of the captains would not be-
lieve the tidings.
But while they still doubted, a Tenian
trireme, commanded by Panaetius the son
of Sosimenes, deserted from the Persians
and joined the Greeks, bringing full in-
telligence. For this reason the Tenians
were inscribed upon the tripod at Delphi
among those who overthrew the barba-
rians. With this ship, which deserted
to their side at Salamis, and the Lemnian
vessel which came over before at Arte-
misium, the Greek fleet was brought to
the full number of 380 ships; otherwise it
fell short by two of that amount.
The Greeks now, not doubting what the
Tenians told them, made ready for the
coming fight. At the dawn of day, all
the men-at-arms were assembled together,
and speeches were made to them, of which
the best was that of Themistocles; who
throughout contrasted what was noble
with what was base, and bade them, in all
that came within the range of man's
nature and constitution, always to make
choice of the nobler part. Having thus
wound up his discourse, he told them to go
at once on board their ships, which they
accordingly did; and about this time the
trireme, that had been sent to Egina for
the jEacidae, returned; whereupon the
Greeks put to sea with all their fleet.
The fleet had scarce left the land when
they were attacked by the barbarians. At
once most of the Greeks began to back
water, and were about touching the shore,
when Ameinias of Pallene, one of the Athe-
nian captains, darted forth in front of
the line, and charged a ship of the enemy.
The two vessels became entangled, and
could not separate, whereupon the rest
of the fleet came up to help Ameinias, and
engaged with the Persians. Such is the
account which the Athenians give of the
way in which the battle began; but the
Eginetans maintain that the vessel which
had been to Egina for the /Eacidae, was
the one that brought on the fight. It is
also reported, that a phantom in the form
of a woman appeared to the Greeks, and,
in a voice that was heard from end to
end of the fleet, cheered them on to the
fight; first, however, rebuking them, and
saying — "Strange men, how long are ye
going to back water? "
Against the Athenians, who held the
western extremity of the line towards
Eleusis, were placed the Phoenicians;
against the Lacedaemonians, whose station
was eastward towards the Piraeus, the
lonians. Of these last a few only followed
the advice of Themistocles, to fight back-
wardly; the greater number did far
otherwise. I could mention here the
names of many trierarchs who took vessels
from the Greeks, but I shall pass over all
excepting Theome'stor, the son of Andro-
damas, and Phylacus, the son of Histiaeus,
both Samians. I show this preference
to them, inasmuch as for this service
Theomestor was made tyrant of Samos
by the Persians, while Phylacus was
enrolled among the king's benefactors,
and presented with a large estate in land.
In the Persian tongue the king's benefac-
tors are called Orosangs.
Far the greater number of the Persian
ships engaged in this battle were disabled,
either by the Athenians or by the Egine-
tans. For as the Greeks fought in order
and kept their line, while the barbarians
were in confusion and had no plan hi
anything that they did, the issue of the
battle could scarce bs other than it was.
HISTORY
239
Yet the Persians fought far more bravely
here than at Euboea, and indeed surpassed
themselves; each did his utmost through
fear of Xerxes, for each thought that the
king's eye was upon himself.
What part the several nations, whether
Greek or barbarian, took in the combat,
I am not able to say for certain; Artemisia,
however, I know, distinguished herself
in such a way as raised her even higher
than she stood before in the esteem of
the king. For after confusion had spread
throughout the whole of the king's fleet,
and her ship was closely pursued by an
Athenian trireme, she, having no way to
fly, since in front of her were a number of
friendly vessels, and she was nearest of all
the Persians to the enemy, resolved on a
measure which in fact proved her safety.
Pressed by the Athenian pursuer, she bore
straight against one of the ships of her
own party, a Calyndian, which had Da-
masithymus, the Calyndian king, himself
on board. I cannot say whether she had
had any quarrel with the man while the
fleet was at the Hellespont, or no — neither
can I decide whether she of set purpose
attacked his vessel, or whether it merely
chanced that the Calyndian ship came in
her way — but certain it is that she bore
down upon his vessel and sank it, and that
thereby she had the good fortune to pro-
cure herself a double advantage. For the
commander of the Athenian trireme, when
he saw her bear down on one of the enemy's
fleet, thought immediately that her vessel
was a Greek, or else had deserted from
the Persians, and was now fighting on the
Greek side; he therefore gave up the chase,
and turned away to attack others.
Thus in the first place she saved her
life by the action, and was enabled to get
clear off from the battle; while further,
it fell out that in the very act of doing
the king an hi jury she raised herself to a
greater height than ever in his esteem.
For as Xerxes beheld the fight, he re-
marked (it is said) the destruction of the
vessel, whereupon the bystanders observed
to him — "Seest thou, master, how well
Artemisia fights, and how she has just sunk
a ship of the enemy?" Then Xerxes
asked if it were really Artemisia's doing;
and they answered, "Certainly; for they
knew her ensign:" while all made sure
that the sunken vessel belonged to the
opposite side. Everything, it is said,
conspired to prosper the queen — it was
especially fortunate for her that not one
of those on board the Calyndian ship sur-
vived to become her accuser. Xerxes,
they say, in reply to the remarks made to
him, observed — "My men have behaved
like women, my women like men!"
There fell in this combat Ariabignes,
one of the chief commanders of the fleet,
who was son of Darius and brother of
Xerxes; and with him perished a vast
number of men of high repute, Persians,
Medes, and allies. Of the Greeks there
died only a few; for, as they were able to
swim, all those that were not slain outright
by the enemy escaped from the sinking
vessels and swam across to Salamis. But
on the side of the barbarians more perished
by drowning than in any other way, since
they did not know how to swim. The
great destruction took place when the
ships which had been first engaged began
to fly; for they who were stationed in the
rear, anxious to display their valor before
the eyes of the king, made every effort
to force their way to the front, and thus
became entangled with such of their own
vessels as were retreating.
In this confusion the following event
occurred: Certain Phoenicians belonging
to the ships which had thus perished made
their appearance before the king, and laid
the blame of their loss on the lonians, de-
claring that they were traitors, and had
wilfully destroyed the vessels. But the
upshot of this complaint was, that the
Ionian captains escaped the death which
threatened them, while their Phoenician
accusers received death as their reward.
For it happened that, exactly as they
spoke, a Samothracian vessel bore down
on an Athenian and sank it, but was at-
tacked and crippled immediately by one of
the Eginetan squadron. Now the Samo-
thracians were expert with the javelin, and
aimed their weapons so well, that they
cleared the deck of the vessel which had
240
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
disabled their own, after which they sprang
on board, and took it. This saved the
lonians. Xerxes, when he saw the ex-
ploit, turned fiercely on the Phoenicians
— (he was ready, in his extreme vexation,
to find fault with any one) — and ordered
their heads to be cut off, to prevent them,
he said, from casting the blame of their
own misconduct upon braver men. Dur-
ing the whole time of the battle Xerxes
sate at the base of the hill called ^Egaleds,
over against Salamis; and whenever he
saw any of his own captains perform any
worthy exploit he inquired concerning
him ; and the man's name was taken down
by his scribes together with the names
of his father and his city. Ariaramnes too,
a Persian, who was a friend of the lonians,
and present at the time whereof I speak,
had a share in bringing about the punish-
ment of the Phoenicians.
When the rout of the barbarians began,
and they sought to make their escape to
Phalerum, the Eginetans, awaiting them
in the channel, performed exploits worthy
to be recorded. Through the whole of
the confused struggle the Athenians em-
ployed themselves in destroying such ships
as either made resistance or fled to shore,
while the Eginetans dealt with those which
endeavored to escape down the strait; so
that the Persian vessels were no sooner
clear of the Athenians than forthwith
they fell into the hands of the Eginetan
squadron.
It chanced here that there was a meeting
between the ship of Themistocles, which
was hasting in pursuit of the enemy,
and that of Polycritus, son of Crius the
Eginetan, which had just charged a
Sidonian trireme. The Sidonian vessel
was the same that captured the Eginetan
guard-ship off Sciathus, which had Py-
theas, the son of Ischenoiis, on board —
that Pytheas, I mean, who fell covered
with wounds, and whom the Sidonians
kept on board their ship, from admiration
of his gallantry. This man afterwards
returned in safety to Egina; for when the
Sidonian vessel with its Persian crew fell
into the hands of the Greeks, he was still
-found on board, Polycritus no sooner saw
the Athenian trireme than, knowing at
once whose vessel it was, as he observed
that it bore the ensign of the admiral, he
shouted to Themistocles jeeringly, and
asked him, in a tone of reproach, if the
Eginetans did not show themselves rare
friends to the Medes. At the same time,
while he thus reproached Themistocles,
Polycritus bore straight down on the
Sidonian. Such of the barbarian vessels as
escaped from the battle fled to Phalerum,
and there sheltered themselves under the
protection of the land army.
The Greeks who gained the greatest
glory of all in the sea-fight off Salamis
were the Eginetans, and after them the
Athenians. The individuals of most dis-
tinction were Polycritus the Eginetan, and
two Athenians, Eumenes of Anagyrus, and
Ameinias of Pallene; the latter of whom
had pressed Artemisia so hard. And as-
suredly, if he had known that the vessel
carried Artemisia on board, he would never
have given over the chase till he had either
succeeded in taking her, or else been taken
himself. For the Athenian captains had
received special orders touching the queen;
and moreover a reward of ten thousand
drachmas had been proclaimed for any
one who should make her prisoner; since
there was great indignation felt that a
woman should appear in arms against
Athens. However, as I said before, she
escaped; and so did some others whose ships
survived the engagement; and these were all
now assembled at the port of Phalerum.
The Athenians say that Adeimantus,
the Corinthian commander, at the mo-
ment when the two fleets joined battle, was
seized with fear, and being beyond measure
alarmed, spread his sails, and hasted to
fly away; on which the other Corinthians,
seeing their leader's ship in full flight,
sailed off likewise. They had reached in
their flight that part of the coast of Salamis
where stands the temple of Minerva Sciras,
when they met a light bark, a very strange
apparition: it was never discovered that
any one had sent it to them; and till it
appeared they were altogether ignorant
how the battle was going. That there was
something beyond nature in the matter
HISTORY
241
they judged from this — that when the
men in the bark drew near to their ships
they addressed them, saying — "Adeiman-
tus, while them playest the traitor's part,
by withdrawing all these ships, and flying
away from the fight, the Greeks whom thou
hast deserted are defeating their foes as
completely as they ever wished hi their
prayers." Adeimantus, however, would
not believe what the men said; whereupon
they told him, "he might take them with
him as hostages, and put them to death
if he did not find the Greeks whining."
Then Adeimantus put about, both he
and those who were with him; and they
re-joined the fleet when the victory was
already gained. Such is the tale which the
Athenians tell concerning them of Corinth;
these latter however do not allow its truth.
On the contrary, they declare that they
were among those who distinguished them-
selves most in the fight. And the rest of
Greece bears witness hi their favor.
In the midst of the confusion Aristides,
the son of Lysimachus, the Athenian, of
whom I lately spoke as a man of the great-
est excellence, performed the following
service. He took a number of the Athe-
nian heavy-armed troops, who had pre-
viously been stationed along the shore of
Salamis, and, landing with them on the
islet of Psyttaleia, slew all the Persians
by whom it was occupied.
As soon as the sea-fight was ended, the
Greeks drew together to Salamis all the
wrecks that were to be found in that
quarter, and prepared themselves for
another engagement, supposing that the
king would renew the fight with the vessels
which still remained to him. Many of
the wrecks had been carried away by a
westerly wind to the coast of Attica, where
they were thrown upon the strip of shore
called Colias. Thus not only were the
prophecies of Bacis and Musaeus concern-
ing this battle fulfilled completely, but
likewise, by the place to which the wrecks
were drifted, the prediction of Lysistratus,
an Athenian soothsayer, uttered many
years before these events, and quite for-
gotten at the time by all the Greeks, was
fully accomplished. The words were —
"Then shall the sight of the oars fill Colian dames
with amazement."
Now this must have happened as soon as
the king was departed.
THUCYDIDES (47i?-4oo? B. C.)
Very different is the great historian of the fatal struggle between the two imperialistic cities, Athens
and Sparta. An active participant in the struggle, he was the first and still remains one of the greatest
of critical investigators into the causes of historical events and of the motives of the men who took part
in them. A skeptic and a philosopher, he has revealed in this tragic drama the beginning of the long
decay of the glorious civilization that was Greece, caused by the underlying selfishness of men in their
relations to each other. The first of the selections describes in the lofty language of Pericles the Athenian
ideal of individual perfection; the second is an illuminating commentary on the revolutionary character
wherever it may be found.
Translation by Richard Crawley.
THE PELOPONNESIAN WAR
THE FUNERAL ORATION OF PERICLES
IN THE same winter the Athenians gave
a funeral at the public cost to those who
had first fallen in this war. It was a
custom of their ancestors, and the manner
of it is as follows. Three days before the
ceremony, the bones of the dead are laid
out in a tent which has been erected; and
their friends bring to their relatives such
offerings as they please. In the funeral
procession cypress coffins are borne in
cars, one for each tribe; the bones of the
deceased being placed in the coffin of their
tribe. Among these is carried one empty
bier decked for the missing, that is, for
those whose bodies could not be recovered.
Any citizen or stranger who pleases, joins
in the procession: and the female relatives
are there to wail at the burial. The dead
are laid hi the public sepulcher in the
242
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
beautiful suburb of the city, in which those
who fall in war are always buried; with
the exception of those slain at Marathon,
who for their singular and extraordinary
valor were interred on the spot where they
fell. After the bodies have been laid in
the earth, a man chosen by the state, of
approved wisdom and eminent reputation,
pronounces over them an appropriate
panegyric; after which all retire. Such is
the manner of the burying; and through-
out the whole of the war, whenever the
occasion arose, the established custom was
observed. Meanwhile these were the
first that had fallen, and Pericles, son of
Xanthippus, was chosen to pronounce their
eulogium. When the proper time arrived,
he advanced from the sepulcher to an ele-
vated platform in order to be heard by as
many of the crowd as possible, and spoke
as follows:
"Most of my predecessors in this place
have commended him who made this
speech part of the law, telling us that it is
well that it should be delivered at the
burial of those who fall in battle. For
myself, I should have thought that the
worth which had displayed itself in deeds,
would be sufficiently rewarded by honors
also shown by deeds; such as you now see
in this funeral prepared at the people's
cost. And I could have wished that the
reputations of many brave men were not
to be imperilled in the mouth of a single
individual, to stand or fall according as he
spoke well or ill. For it is hard to speak
properly upon a subject where it is even
difficult to convince your hearers that you
are speaking the truth. On the one hand,
the friend who is familiar with every fact
of the story, may think that some point
has not been set forth with that fulness
which he wishes and knows it to deserve;
on the other, he who is a stranger to the
matter may be led by envy to suspect ex-
aggeration if he hears anything above
his own nature. For men can endure to
hear others praised only so long as they
can severally persuade themselves of their
own ability to equal the actions recounted:
when this point is passed, envy comes in
and with it incredulity. However, since
our ancestors have stamped this custom
with their approval, it becomes my duty to
obey the law and to try to satisfy your
several wishes and opinions as best I may.
"I shall begin with our ancestors: it is
both just and proper that they should
have the honor of the first mention on an
occasion like the present. They dwelt in
the country without break in the succession
from generation to generation, and handed
it down free to the present time by their
valor. And if our more remote ancestors
deserve praise, much more do our own
fathers, who added to their inheritance
the empire which we now possess, and
spared no pains to be able to leave their
acquisitions to us of the present generation.
Lastly, there are few parts of our do-
minions that have not been augmented by
those of us here, who are still more or less
in the vigor of life; while the mother
country has been furnished by us with
everything that can enable her to depend
on her own resources whether for war or
for peace. That part of our history which
tells of the military achievements which
gave us our several possessions, or of the
ready valor with which either we or our
fathers stemmed the tide of Hellenic or
foreign aggression, is a theme too familiar
to my hearers for me to dilate on, and I
shall therefore pass it by. But what was
the road by which we reached our position,
what the form of government under which
our greatness grew, what the national
habits out of which it sprang; these are
questions which I may try to solve before
I proceed to my panegyric upon these
men; since I think this to be a subject
upon which on the present occasion a
speaker may properly dwell, and to which
the whole assemblage, whether citizens
or foreigners, may listen with advantage.
"Our constitution does not copy the
laws of neighboring states; we are rather a
pattern to others than imitators ourselves.
Its administration favors the many in-
stead of the few; this is why it is called a
democracy. If we look to the laws, they
afford equal justice to all in their private
differences; if to social standing, advance-
ment in public life falls to reputation for
HISTORY
243
capacity, class considerations not being
allowed to interfere with merit; nor again
does poverty bar the way, if a man is able
to serve the state, he is not hindered by
the obscurity of his condition. The free-
dom which we enjoy in our government
extends also to our ordinary life. There,
far from exercising a jealous surveillance
over each other, we do not feel called
upon to be angry with our neighbor for
doing what he likes, or even to indulge in
those injurious looks which cannot fail
to be offensive, although they inflict no
positive penalty. But all this ease in our
private relations does not make us lawless
as citizens. Against this fear is our chief
safeguard, teaching us to obey the magis-
trates and the laws, particularly such as
regard the protection of the injured,
whether they are actually on the statute
book, or belong to that code which, al-
though unwritten, yet cannot be broken
without acknowledged disgrace.
"Further, we provide plenty of means
for the mind to refresh itself from business.
We celebrate games and sacrifices all the
year round, and the elegance of our
private establishments forms a daily source
of pleasure and helps to banish the spleen;
while the magnitude of our city draws the
produce of the world into our harbor, so
that to the Athenian the fruits of other
countries are as familiar a luxury as those
of his own.
"If we turn to our military policy,
there also we differ from our antagonists.
We throw open our city to the world,
and never by alien acts exclude foreigners
from any opportunity of learning or ob-
serving, although the eyes of an enemy
may occasionally profit by our liberality;
trusting less in system and policy than to
the native spirit of our citizens; while in
education, where our rivals from their
very cradles by a painful discipline seek
after manliness, at Athens we live exactly
as we please, and yet are just as ready to
encounter every legitimate danger. In
proof of this it may be noticed that the
Lacedemonians do not invade our country
alone, but bring with them all their con-
federates; while we Athenians advance
unsupported into the territory of a neigh-
bor, and fighting upon a foreign soil usually
vanquish with ease men who are defending
their homes. Our united force was never
yet encountered by any enemy, because
we have at once to attend to our marine
and to despatch our citizens by land upon
a hundred different services; so that,
wherever they engage with some such
fraction of our strength, a success against
a detachment is magnified into a victory
over the nation, and a defeat into a reverse
suffered at the hands of our entire people.
And yet if with habits not of labor but of
ease, and courage not of art but of nature,
we are still willing to encounter danger,
we have the double advantage of escaping
the experience of hardships in anticipation
and of facing them in the hour of need as
fearlessly as those who are never free from
them.
"Nor are these the only points in which
our city is worthy of admiration. We cul-
tivate refinement without extravagance
and knowledge without effeminacy; wealth
we employ more for use than for show, and
place the real disgrace of poverty not in
owning to the fact but hi declining the
struggle against it. Our public men have,
besides politics, their private affairs to
attend to, and our ordinary citizens,
though occupied with the pursuits of in-
dustry, are still fair judges of public mat-
ters; for, unlike any other nation, re-
garding him who takes no part in these
duties not as unambitious but as useless,
we Athenians are able to judge at all events
if we cannot originate, and instead of look-
ing on discussion as a stumbling-block
in the way of action, we think it an indis-
pensable preliminary to any wise action
at all. Again, in our enterprises we
present the singular spectacle of daring
and deliberation, each carried to its high-
est point, and both united in the same
persons; although usually decision is
the fruit of ignorance, hesitation of reflec-
tion. But the palm of courage will surely
be adjudged most justly to those who
best know the difference between hardship
and pleasure and yet are never tempted to
shrink from danger. In generosity we are
844
TYPES OF GREAT LITERATURE
equally singular, acquiring our friends by
conferring not by receiving favors. Yet,
of course, the doer of the favor is the
firmer friend of the two, in order by con-
tinued kindness to keep the recipient in
his debt; while the debtor feels less keenly
from the rery consciousness that the re-
turn he makes will be a payment, not a
free gift. And it is only the Athenians
who, fearless of consequences, confer their
benefits not from calculations of expe-
diency, but in the confidence of liberality.
"In short, I say that as a city we are
the school of Hellas; while I doubt if the
world can produce a man, who where he
has only himself to depend upon, is equal
to so many emergencies, and graced by
so happy a versatility as the Athenian.
And that this is no mere boast thrown
out for 
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